


Headcanons and Such: A Collection of Things That I Wish Were True

by PlethoraOfCreatures



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: And also in only one chapter, Angst, Because that ain't my scene fam, Don't worry they're not ever the main focus, Either I love them and MAKE them canon, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Except for smut, Fluff, Gen, Headcanon, Humor, I vary from wildly ooc to recounting canon, I'll up the rating if I need to, Look I love these characters and that's enough, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Not Canon Compliant, OCs are sporadically characterized, Or I hate them and also make them canon, Pick a flavor any flavor it'll probably be in here, Really this is me pissing all over canon, Steven's great, There I added the people who I mention, This is me just describing things I want to happen but won't, except for steven, including me, mmm yeah i upped the rating, so there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 67,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlethoraOfCreatures/pseuds/PlethoraOfCreatures
Summary: Life's a bitch, the saying goes. But more often than not, I find that canon fits this description better than life. But the great thing about this website, and any other fansite, really, is that you can take a match to canon and watch the flames dance. Maybe roast a marshmallow or two.Welcome to the bonfire, kids. Grab a stick and toss me a marshmallow, will you?
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	1. Wait, What do You Mean There's More Than One Batman?

**Author's Note:**

> More often than not, the headcanons will be about Batman or at least in the DC universe, as that is the universe I'm currently focused on. This isn't technically fanfiction, as each headcanon will probably be less than a thousand words.

There are far more than fifty-two universes. I mean, _duh,_ how could there not be? Infinite choices made, infinite outcomes. So you know, there's going to be more than one version of Batman. 

And each version of Batman being the pragmatic and efficient bastard that he is, they're going to want to come up with a way to contact these other worlds, in case something like Barbatos happens again. Because sending Cyborg and Flash to zip around the multiverse took way to long for comfort. 

And now this is sounding like "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." 

They already probably have the tech they need to create a little pocket-dimension. A gathering place, a neutral ground, for them to gather. Like, like a yearly meeting for something. And it will be called the Council of Nocturne, because that is a suitably dramatic name for a bunch of dramatic, emotionally-stunted idiots. 

And of course, they mean for it to be business-like and practical, but there are definitely a few snags with this. 

One: There's going to have to be certain levels. Because a Batman who had Dick Grayson as a Robin is going to be a little confused as to why there are Batmen with varying versions of the bird at his side. Or a Batman with Jason Todd as his Robin wondering why others flinch when his Robin speaks. 

So, there have to be certain levels. And once a Batman passes a certain event, say, the murder of Jason Todd or No Man's Land, they move up a level. 

The other snag is how _different_ their alternate versions would be. 

Because this is a gathering of _Batmen,_ not Bruce Wayne. And that is a very important difference. 

The kid who went to therapy and grew up normally isn't going to be helpful. However, a Dick Grayson who just recently took on the Cowl after the supposed death of Bruce Wayne? Big check right there. 

So you have Terry McGinnis. Dick Grayson. Damian Wayne. Bruce Wayne. Martha Wayne (I read a comic with her as Batwoman, it was glorious). Thomas Wayne (We'll get to a Flashpoint headcanon later on). Cassandra Cain. Bryce Wayne. Brianna Wayne. Whatever female Bruce Wayne is named. You have Batman with wings, you have Batman as a dragon (he hoards children, obviously), Batman as a metahuman, Batman with Superman's powers, gay Bats, bisexual Bats, trans Bats, aromantic Bats. Basically, anything you could think of, it's there. 

You also have eight-year-old Bruce Wayne. Fresh from losing his parents. He didn't make that vow at his parents' graves. He made that vow over their cooling corpses. And the Council saw this, went "Oh shit," and decided to help him train. Because a Bruce Wayne with that much anger would be a dangerous thing to be left unchecked. 

That's another part of it. The Council basically peers around the multiverse, looking for universes where things have gone horribly wrong. Whether it be Philip Kane being a piece of shit masquerading as a human (see Just Don't Ask Me How I Am by catty8) or _Alfred_ of all people abusing Bruce (because there's always that one in a million chance), they step in when they think it's necessary. 

And they might think it's necessary a lot. 

Like, dropping in on a court hearing unannounced to check on a Batman who had been chucked in Arkham for a year or two because he was unmasked and fighting crime in a bat costume isn't normal in any sense of the word. 

Oh my God, I can see it, Terry dropping from a blue portal in front of the judge, interrupting whatever he was going to say as he walks over to Bruce, who is handcuffed. 

"Where ya been, old man?" he asks, as he casually just fricking _breaks_ the solid steel chains. "The Council's been shitting bricks! We thought you were dead!"

And Bruce just sighs and wishes Satan would come for his soul because _oh my God, Terry, no I don't need to be rescued I am in THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING stop EMBARRASSING ME in front of the normal people_. 

Speaking of embarrassing people, Thomas Wayne just loves to come on over and threaten anyone who's giving his son trouble. Thomas, as I'll explain later in my Flashpoint headcanon, is doing better and is less of a basket-case. He's accepted the rest of the Council as basically his children and has even picked up a Mr. John Grayson (more on that later). 

So whenever a Batman's out with a broken leg or something, Thomas cheerfully volunteers to watch over their Gotham for a little while. Of course, with non-lethal rounds. 

Also, Thomas is like the ending argument for any fighting that breaks out, because he's like the Dad of dads and he doesn't care who started it, _he will end it and you_. 

Yes, so now there's Thomas, Terry, (a lot of) Bruce, Bryce, and the occasional Bat-in-training. I know it wouldn't be realistic, but I'm thinking of the Batman from the New 52's Year One. You know, the one with the fade and Disney-Prince eyebrows. 

And now I'm cackling imagining Thomas, Terry, Bryce, and young Bruce in a booth at like, this Ruby Tuesdays or something because they landed in the middle of nowhere and are trying to find this world's Batman. So everyone is really confused because _there's this old guy who looks hella like Thomas Wayne and this younger kid who looks hella like Bruce Wayne and this other kid who looks like both of them and does not-Bruce-Wayne have a sister or something?_

And Terry is ordering every flavor of smoothie he can find because he ain’t gonna pass up this opportunity to taste some olden days food. 

So because the Council of Nocturne has already spiraled so far out of control (in a completely good way, rather like adopting Dick Grayson), meetings of the Council are called for complete inane things. Like, one Bruce Wayne is having a gay crisis. A soon-to-be-father Bruce Wayne panicking because _holy shit my wife is in labor and I knew this would happen but this is completely unexpected oh god oh god oh god I was NOT prepared-_

Meta-human Batman having an identity crisis because _I’m a metahuman, am I allowed in Gotham? Do I let other meta-humans in? Do I let anyone know?_

Batman short-circuiting after That Day at the circus because he realizes that _dear God, I’m feeling emotion what do I do?_

Just imagine, teenage Bruce Wayne coming out as bi or something because he has to test the waters before telling Alfred (even though he already knows and has known before Bruce knew) and telling a bunch of versions of himself seems the best way to go about it. 

And _everyone_ there just rolls their eyes because good _God_ , the kid was pining, and this really was better for everyone. 

One says “Kid, you _knew_ I had a husband. You were literally there at my bar mitzvah. Why in the name of Gotham would you think that we weren’t accepting?”

Also, Bruce Wayne is Jewish and anyone who says otherwise can say it to my face. 

Jim Gordon is sometimes very confused by the random appearances of other Bat-people. Especially since that one time where a portal opened on top of the GCPD building and another Batman just walked out of it while the Batman he had been talking to walked in, trading a high-five as they passed each other. 

And apparently the Batman he had been working with for the past week _was not the same Batman_. 

Jim Gordon has the patience of a saint, but sooner or later he’s gonna cry because of these _stupid vigilantes_. 

Oh, some of the other superheroes have their own Councils. Wonder Woman has her Pantheon, Superman is a member of the Assembly of Krypton, Hal Jordan has the Green Lantern Corps Corps, because he is a moron across the multiverse and that is totally something he would do. 

And occasionally they interact with each other, except for the members who are romantically involved with each other, and sometimes it just devolves into a circle of threatening large amounts of violence if one breaks another’s heart. 

But the best part, by far, is the parties they sometimes throw. You might think, _but Batman despises parties!_ And you’d be right, except he despises parties with other rich schmucks, corrupt businessmen, and handsy socialites. However, he would not be averse to a quiet gathering, maybe with some nice whiskey, and stories about what shit other Gothams have had. 

Except it doesn’t always work that way. And that’s why he has a video of Bryce Wayne of Earth whatever completely drunk and singing “Fly Me To The Moon” by Frank Sinatra with unfair accuracy. And a video of Terry being completely confused by the concept of traffic cones, or stamps, or whatever the hell is common now but isn’t in the future. And a video of Russian Bruce doing twelve shots of vodka and wrestling a _bear_ that absolutely _no one_ knows how it got there, all to prove that he is the most Russian of Russia. 

In other words, the Council of Nocturne is completely batshit, pun totally intended.


	2. A Good Relationship With the GCPD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman's relationship with the GCPD is ridiculous at times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this blew up. I totally lied in the beginning chapter notes, by the way, this stuff gets long.

Infinite universes, right? At least one of them has to have a Batman with a better than not-shooting-at-each-other relationship with the GCPD, right?

Well, kiddos, I have a headcanon that there TOTALLY is. 

Not just with Jim Gordon. See “the bizarre and beautiful life of james w. gordon” if you want some Batfam and Gordon friendship. 

No, the entire GCPD. Because in this world, the reason why the GCPD is so shitty isn’t completely because of the horrible amount of corruption in its ranks, but the complete lack of sufficient funding. Wayne Enterprises devotes just as much money to the GCPD as it does to Arkham, but the results are much the same. 

They don’t have enough bulletproof vests. Some of their guns are out of date and more dangerous to them than they are to criminals. The pay is shit, and they’re so understaffed that it’s only with Batman’s help that they could get a prison break under control without losing a dozen or more officers. 

Before that? Well. 

They hoped for the best. 

The Commissioner's trying his hardest, he really is, but Gotham is well, Gotham. So when Batman shows up, as brutal as he is at first, it’s a relief. It really is. Here is his proof that people in Gotham can be good. Here is this man who is trying to save his city.

Oh, he’s definitely a man, Gordon and half the GCPD saw him take a bullet for a rookie and that’s just more proof that he’s on their side, isn’t it?

Before they could offer him medical attention, he vanished. Gordon, Bullock, Montoya (the rookie who should’ve died) all worry for the mysterious figure. 

_Did he die?_ Is the unspoken worry. 

_No, please, we just got the upper hand, we have a chance now, please._

Imagine their relief when the pointy-eared bastard shows up again, as grim and as taciturn as ever. 

Also, this is coincidentally the same time that Bruce Wayne returns from his “business trip”. Which is odd, because Lucius Fox was appointed by Bruce Wayne to run Wayne Enterprises.

In this universe, Bruce Wayne is not a playboy. As a matter of fact, the only times he’s ever been seen are at charity functions, fundraisers, and most interestingly, a big cat wildlife habitat benefit. He’s still very much the quiet and intense boy Gordon had seen in that grimy alley. 

“Brucie” doesn’t exist here. And Bruce Wayne is all the more real (and more mentally healthy) for it. 

The media calls him an eccentric billionaire. 

Oh, they don’t know the half of it. 

And as the GCPD puts more and more pieces together, as BUllock cross-references moments of Bat-injury to “business trips”, as Montoya pores over money records of Wayne Enterprises, looking for slight inconsistencies, James Gordon makes his mind up and dares to call the Bat _Bruce_ before the man leaves him on the rooftop. 

The dark figure, Gotham’s knight, stiffened fractionally, and Jim thinks, _Gotcha._

But he leaves without saying anything, perhaps hoping that James Gordon will think that he didn’t hear anything. 

But Jim knows. 

He tells his best friend, Bullock, the man who he knew would take a bullet for him. And Bullock may be a good man, but one of his faults is that he can’t keep a secret for his life.

And he _knew_ he shouldn’t have, he _knew_ it wasn’t his secret to tell and he did it anyway and now the whole GCPD knows and it’s all his fault, he’s expecting Vicki Vale to come out with the article any day now, and, and, and-

And it doesn’t happen. 

But they give the Bat these meaningful looks, and Jim knows it irritates the hell out of him and so I think he does it too, as petty vengeance for all those times he just left with a swirl of his cape and nary a word. 

However, what happens is that Vicki Vale publishes an article on how the GCPD could do more to find out exactly who the vigilante is. Even the mayor (who is totally corrupt and would _love_ to see the bat swimming with the fishes, if you catch my drift) sends an irate message to Gordon. 

But the mayor can suck a dick, if I can be so crude. 

The _entire_ GCPD shares this view.

Bullock, when confronted with an over-eager reporter from the _Gazette_ who practically shoves a mic up his nose, sums up their feelings in one comment. 

“You can take Batman from my cold, dead, and underpaid hands, you sonsabitches. You want him? Go after him yourself.” He walks off, taking a swig from his flask. 

And Jim likes Bullock, he really does, but God, does that man give him a headache sometimes. He had to give a press conference to clean that mess up. 

And who does he see there but Bruce Wayne himself. He sees Bruce, and he must’ve let more shock on his face show than he intended, because Wayne gives him the quickest, most discreet, blink-and-you-miss-it smile and wink that James had ever seen. Then his face goes to a carefully crafted mask, a face that James has seen the bottom half of at least a hundred times. 

And every other cop in the room sees it too, and it’s like they’re psychic or something, because they all think, _holy shit, this guy’s actually Batman._

This headcanon is one of my more complex ones, because the focus isn’t only on Batman and the GCPD, but instead, the whole of Gotham, and how Bruce Wayne being Batman is kind of an open secret. 

But of course, nobody can ever prove anything. And my boy Bruce wouldn’t have it any other way. 

And nobody goes after him at Wayne Manor, because Batman doesn’t bust down their door in the middle of the day at their apartment complex and start throwing batarangs around. And they don’t camp out around the Wayne family cemetery and jump him there, because Batman doesn’t camp out at their mother’s place and wait for their monthly visit. And if the crime rate is a little down at the anniversary of the Wayne murders, well. 

Okay, they don’t have any reasonable excuse for that, other than “We know Bruce Wayne is Batman and we’re just giving the guy time to grieve tonight.”

Hell, even the Arkham inmates don’t attack him. This, of course, is for varying reasons. 

Riddler can’t get his head out of his ass enough to realize that Bruce Wayne is Batman. He’s still obsessed with proving his mental superiority. 

(Even though Batman never said that he was smarter than Riddler. Never. Riddler’s ego is just that fragile.)

Joker frankly doesn’t care who the hell Batman is. It’s Batman and Joker, not Bruce Wayne and Joker. To attack Wayne at his house wouldn’t be him getting the better of the Bat, so it’s cheating. 

Harley Quinn is either following Joker’s lead or standing with Poison Ivy. 

Speaking of, Poison Ivy’s alright with Bruce Wayne. Wayne Enterprises is very efficient at buying the companies who pollute the most and turning them into bastions of green energy. Not to mention, the various preservation rallies he’s set up. It’s only when Batman interferes with her master plan of turning everyone in Gotham into a tree does she get angry. 

Dr. Hugo Strange sees Bruce Wayne as a mask. I mean, it’s clearly not, not in this universe. “Brucie” is the real mask. But as someone who wants to crawl into the little nooks and crannies of the Dark Knight’s mind, Batman is far more interesting a specimen to capture. 

Mad Hatter, is well, mad. Freaking nuts. He is firmly planted in his Wonderland delusion. 

Scarecrow… is complicated. On one hand, he knows what Batman is afraid of. What he screams makes _so_ much more sense now, and further experimentation with Batman’s fear tolerance would probably be a dream come true to him. On the other hand, he recognizes that Batman isn’t just a pair of fists, he’s a detective. The World’s Greatest Detective, they call him. He’s a scientist. And Dr. Crane can respect a scientific mind when he sees one. 

So you might ask, if everyone basically knows Bruce Wayne is Batman, why has nobody called him out on it? Well, either the Gotham Gazette is pulling a Riddler, or Vicki Vale has already published the article. 

Yep, Gordon and the GCPD panic at this, thinking, _oh shit oh shit, we have to take out the Bat now, goddammit._

But, the reaction the rest of Gotham has is lukewarm at best. Random interviews of everyday Gotham individuals result in a shrug and “Yeah, so? Batman’s the most normal thing we have here.”

But the Justice League _panics._ They essentially kidnap Bruce and hold him there on the Watchtower, while anyone who can summon a protective shield is at Wayne Manor. 

Bruce is not happy. At all. And he tells them to _put me back, I’m frankly insulted that you think I don’t have protective measures in place, I’m Batman, dammit._

And life in Gotham goes on as usual. Watch out for the bombs and don’t look in the sewers. Don’t worry, our billionaire bat vigilante will save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos! I feel like I'm saying thanks for all the likes on YouTube, but I would never do something so tasteless. But please, comment! Tell me what you think. This is my first time writing in this fandom, but it sure as heck isn't my first time writing. I have some original works too, and if you could check them out and tell me what you think of them, that would be great. 
> 
> See ya!


	3. Flash, I'm Getting Real Tired of Not Being Dead - A Flashpoint headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Wayne is alive in exactly one (1) universe. 
> 
> He's not exactly happy about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have much time. This is the bare bones/ the beginning. 
> 
> Okay, in this universe, Thomas also doesn't have time to write out a heartfelt letter or didn't plan for the occasion. He's much more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-one's-pants Batman than the others, I feel. It might make him a little OOC. Either way, Bruce Wayne doesn't know about Flashpoint Batman. Flash didn't think that he should've told him about it, because if someone up and told him that "Hey man, I saw your dead parent whose trauma of their passing drove you to become who you are today and they were alive and we worked together to save the multiverse, but they gave their lives in the process," well. He'd be a little angry at least. Flash does not wat to see Batman angry.
> 
> Okay, basically after Flash fixes Flashpoint, there is no interaction between Bruce and Thomas. Because Thomas makes poor choices and screw DC canon for it.

Scene: Justice League Meeting Room.

People there: Hal Jordan, Diana Prince, Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Arthur Curry, and most importantly, Barry Allen. 

Everything's usual. Batman and Superman going at each other, with Wonder Woman playing peacemaker when things are looking a little too heated. Arthur is telepathically communicating with his fish, wishing he was anywhere but here. Hal Jordan is looking like he's watching the greatest tennis tournament in the universe. Diana is wishing that she could just lock these two in a closet and get it over with, but Clark is married and she's pretty sure that Bruce is seeing Catwoman, and there's also the fact that there is no closet in the history of mankind that those two would fit into because they're built like refrigerators. Barry Allen is playing a game on his phone, waiting until the Team Mom and Team Dad stop arguing. 

(To be honest, he couldn't tell you which one was which, and that _terrifies_ him. _Batman,_ wearing an _apron_ and aggressively shoving cookies at him, _oh god-)_

There's a _damn_ good reason why he plays his game and waits them out. 

And that's when the portal opens. Right over the table. Glowing blue, swirling, the whole shebang. And then who comes out of this portal, fast enough to take the _Flash_ by surprise, is none other than someone wearing a Batsuit.

Superman is confused. Very confused. Fast as thought, he quickly rules out Bruce because Bruce is standing right next to him and that is clearly not Bruce. Somehow, this mysterious stranger is even more buff than them, but maybe an inch or two shorter than him. Making him about Bruce's size. 

But holy alternate universe, Batman, is that a _gun?_

Oh, yeah. The stranger is holding a gun in his right hand, looking damn sure that he knows how to use it. Definitely not Bruce, then. For one, Bruce despises guns. For another, Bruce would never stick a gun in Barry Allen's face.

Wait, what? 

"Flash," tphe stranger growls, sounding so much like Bruce and so much not like Bruce that Superman's head spins. "I'm getting real tired of not being dead yet."

Batman stiffens when he hears the voice. 

Batman _doesn't stiffen._

Some shit's about to go down. 

The Flash, the Scarlet Speedster, is almost hyperventilating at this point and backed against the wall. He clearly knows this man in a Batsuit. 

But the Batsuit is different. The famed utility belt is still there, but red. The shoulders still have the dark and heavy cape wrapped around them, but wicked-looking barbs, one on each side, curl up, looking like the horns of a bull or thorns. The lenses of the Cowl glow faintly red, not the neutral white of their teammate. The Bat-symbol is still there, but the edges are sharper and the whole thing is offset by a circle of red. 

But most of all, it's the guns. Two holsters, one empty, as the stranger continues to point a handgun at Flash.

Batman, surprisingly, is the first to unfreeze. I don't exactly know _how_ one can be prepared for a gun-toting alternate version of yourself to come out of a portal and attack your teammate, but then again, he's Batman. Batman would probably tell God to get out of his way because the Creator was messing up his plan. 

He lunges at the man with no warning. No shout, no snarl of anger. Superman, and perhaps Wonder Woman, knows what this means. Bruce - no, _Batman_ \- isn't playing around. Not that he usually does, but this time, he means to hurt this guy. 

They collide in a stomach-jarring clash of Kevlar and metal. Blow for blow, punch for punch. Knowing that to try and shoot at his opponent would probably result in his own injury from ricochets, the stranger doesn't go for his guns. The table, at this point, has been knocked to the side of the room, giving the two combatants plenty of space to try and beat the shit out of each other. And here, the Justice League can see just how impressive Batman's fighting skills are. I mean, of course, they knew that the guy could throw a damn good punch, but this is practically art in motion. 

His opponent is just as good. Batarangs flash and glitter in their gauntlets like deadly fans. The blade-like protrusions on said gauntlets scrape and lock against each other with a sound akin to a sword being sharpened. The Justice League is stuck, half in awe, the other half in horror. But for the moment, Bruce seems to be handling himself quite well. 

They break apart and glare at each other from two sides of the room. A few Batarangs are embedded in the walls. The stranger's guns are in the corner, having been thrown in the initial lunge. 

The silence is broken by an _absurd_ snap, crackle, and _pop_ noise. Both men wince, hands flying up to their cowls. They each tap a button and the lenses that cover normally cover their eyes are flicked back. Superman realized what happened. Those lenses, which could be switched from normal vision to infrared to night vision, had shorted out, effectively leaving them blind if the lenses remained. 

Their eyes, so alike, blue and hard and cold, meet, and that's when all hell breaks loose. 

Batman seems stunned once more, a shock that costs him, as the other, older, (the eyes had given him away) man charges at him with a guttural _howl_ of rage that _scares_ the superheroes. 

Flash, who had been forgotten during the fierce battle, zipped between the two with a crackle of lighting, saving Batman from a savage blow. This snaps the rest of the League into action and Superman and Green Lantern manage to restrain the other man while Wonder Woman and Aquaman check on Batman. Something he thinks is entirely a waste of time, but if he just saw Superman fighting his hardest against a clone of himself, he would be the first over there with the medkit and an irate (but mostly concerned) "You dumbass". 

All the fight seems to drain out of the man as it becomes clear that he cannot break free. He looks at Flash with the smallest hint of apology. 

"You'd said I'd die. You'd said it would all reset. Why am I here? _Why am I not dead?_ "

Superman, on instinct, says "You don't want that."

"You're wrong," the man says with flat and _terrifying_ conviction. 

Batman stands up, his shadow seemingly spreading through the entire room. Yes, this is Gotham's Dark Knight. This is the figure that inspired countless urban legends and kindled fear in the hearts of the people who would do ill. This is the monster that refuses to kill, who children never truly fear. 

"How could you." It's a question and is not. It's clear what it means. 

"You lost your parents. I lost a son."

As if _that_ explained everything. For Batman, apparently it does. 

Batman is shaken once more. "No." It's... _denial_ , unusual from him. Superman lets the other man go. He's shocked, too. 

"Imagine how I feel," the other man says. It's something that's usually said with a bit of humor, but the man's voice is flat.

"You're _dead_ ," Batman practically hisses. For how terrifying it is, it's shallow. A mask. Anger hiding something else. 

The stranger settles on his feet, looking more tired than anyone else Superman has ever seen, and he's seen Bruce writing reports after missions running on caffeine, three hours of sleep snatched four days previous, and enough spite to make the Devil pale. "So is my son," he says, and something in his voice is like a sucker-punch to the gut for the Man of Steel. The _pain_ rolling off of this man is tangible, even worse than Batman is on his worst days, when he's refused to come out of Gotham for days on end and practically lives in the Cave. 

Clark Kent, Kal-El of Krypton, Superman, tries to have patience with all of his teammates. He really does. But dear _lord_ , he could've thrown Green Lantern through a wall when Hal Jordan spoke. 

"Wait, so now there are _two_ Batmans?" He looks puzzled for a second. "Batmen? Bat-people?"

"Never mind that," Arthur says, leveling his trident at the stranger. "Who are you and why have you come here?"

Superman is surprised that the other man willingly takes off the cowl. He'd have thought that-

Holy. 

Shit. 

_That's Thomas Wayne._

_That's Bruce's father._

_That's impossible._

Yeah, older definitely, but there's no mistaking that face. 

"Thomas Wayne," the man says. "Of the Flashpoint universe. I would say I'm glad to meet you, but I'm really not."

Thomas Wayne is angry. Really, really angry. He's stuck in a universe where he's supposed to be dead, his original universe still exists, his guns are probably damaged, and his son can apparently throw a _wicked_ right hook. He'd be proud if it didn't hurt so damn much. Bruce Wayne, of course, insists on a blood test. While this is happening, Superman, who is _very_ different from the slim man treated as a science experiment he helped rescue, sits outside his holding cell (they don't call it that, but that's what it is) and tries to talk to him. 

Tries being the operative word, because Thomas is in a shitty mood, and yeah, he's being childish, but he was never in the best frame of mind to make rational decisions. 

But what's _really_ annoying is that the hero seems to understand that he wouldn't be getting any answers from Thomas. No, he doesn't grill him for information. Instead, he tells Thomas about this world. How Flash set things right, how they didn't press Flash for answers, who was in the room, who they were, and much of this Thomas already knows. He's _aggressive,_ not stupid, and judging from what Flash told him in his own universe, Thomas Wayne is dead here, the Justice League has been formed, and Atlantis and Amazonians aren't trying to rip each others' throats out. 

In short, this is where things have gone right, if being brutally murdered in front of your only son can be counted as thing going right. And in Thomas' mind, it is. Because he's seen some shit. Had his son killed, the woman he loved gone crazy, the closest person to a friend he had murdered by said former love of his life, so on. 

So yeah. He's not doing too good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not finished, oh boy am I not! But this is getting pretty long. So there will be a part two!
> 
> Please comment, tell me what you think! Should I continue or throw my computer off of a moving train?


	4. What to do When an Alternate Version of Your Long-Dead Father Comes Out of a Portal (part II of Flashpoint Headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne is Batman. 
> 
> Thomas Wayne is Batman but in a different universe.
> 
> (And somewhere, somehow, Alfred Pennyworth senses a disturbance in the Force.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part two! Enjoy!  
> Hahaha.... God help me, I'm still kicking.

So, last we left off, Thomas was 1), not dead, 2), pretty pissed off, and 3), being held in the custody of the Justice League while their Batman is panicking in the labs. 

Here is where I run into some problems. Thomas needs to get back to his own world. As much as he hates the fact that it even exists, it's still his universe, and he's protective of his Gotham. But he also needs to get rid of his very bad headspace that he's in at the moment. He's not exactly suicidal, as I'm pretty sure he would want his death to have meaning. I don't think he would fully and completely make that choice to end his own life. But if he were to be killed while fighting, while trying to _do_ something, he wouldn't be too torn up about it. 

Basically, he wants to die, but he doesn't want to kill himself. Actually, he wants his entire universe to die, because it's a mistake. And that mistake caused his son to die. 

Bruce Wayne knows his father is alive. Thomas Wayne sees his son as he was supposed to be. Alive. 

So, let's say they have a heart-to-heart. Well, not really. Thomas Wayne not only wants his son to be alive but happy, too. And him being Batman is a surefire sign that all is not sunshine and rainbows with Gotham's Dark Knight. He tells him as such, that he wants the Bat to die with him. Bruce, of course, would be _incensed_ at this. How could Thomas, knowing to some degree of the pain that Bruce went through, ask him to stop? The whole reason isn't for vengeance and it's not for the sake of taking his hurt out on people. It's for hope. So that no one will ever have to go through what he did. So that families can walk home in Gotham without fear. And if that fear needs to be banished by a bright spotlight with a bat emblem on it, so be it. 

Bruce, quite possibly, can also come to a few realizations himself. This is, after all, the first talk with a parent in literal decades, and he's no longer that little kid in the alleyway. A part of him still is, a part of him is still hurting, and that part will probably always be there. But he's grown. He's not helpless. He's _Batman,_ the Dark Knight, the Caped Crusader, the Bat of Gotham, the thing that criminals are terrified of when night falls. He's learned to fight in so many ways, and he's fought and bled and gotten up and fought some more for this city who he half-thinks doesn't want to be saved at all. 

Gotham might have needed him, once upon a time, when Crime Alley was Park Row, when James Gordon was just a detective, when Gotham chewed you up and spat you out and then laughed at the remains. Gotham needed him then, and he answered that need as soon as he could. Gotham needed him when the Joker came in all his awful glory, with bloody smiles and green hair and purple suits. Gotham needed him when the world had given up on Gotham, and if there is one thing that Batman and Bruce Wayne don't do, it's give up on Gotham. Sure, he might give up Batman, or give up Bruce Wayne, but he will never, ever, leave Gotham to rot and burn and collapse. 

But Gotham doesn't need him nearly as much. He is Batman because he chooses to be Batman. He is Bruce Wayne because he chooses to be Bruce Wayne. This is actually quite a good sign, as this means he's developing his own sense of self that's not born out of a feeling of necessity. Batman will never be a burden to Gotham, just as the gargoyles will never stop their perpetual guard over the city. 

To Bruce, Thomas both understands and completely misunderstands why Batman exists. 

His explanation of why he doesn't use a gun or kill helps somewhat. Because Batman isn't about vengeance, why would he use the same tools as the perpetrators? Why would he go to their level? He tells Thomas that he _knows_ that some of the thugs-for-hire that he fights every night have families. That the only reason they're working for Riddler or Penguin or whoever is because the rent's in a week but so is their daughter's birthday, and they need the money. That some of them are just people trying to make a living. That some of them lose sleep because of what they do. Batman tries to help those kinds of people, gives them phone numbers to Wayne Enterprises, so he can get them a job that pays, as security, as a janitor, as mailroom. 

Batman is darkness, yes, but it's hope, too. For a better future, but one that doesn't mean tearing everything down and starting anew. 

Thomas' eyes are opened by this thinking. For Thomas, Batman was pain wrapped in darkness wrapped in grief. Batman was a means to an end, nothing more. Get revenge, get out. Wake up, fight, maybe eat, sleep, repeat. For Batman to be anything else than vengeance is alien. 

Bruce, for his credit, understands where Thomas is coming from. He understands why he relies on pain and fear to keep the criminal element of Gotham in check. After all, he was much the same after the Joker killed Jason. 

(I should probably address the fact that Martha Wayne is the Joker in Flashpoint.)

But anyways, Bruce understands the place that Thomas is coming from. Bruce even tried to kill Joker after Jason's funeral (that's canon, kiddos, he sent the clown bastard to the bottom of the Gotham Bay via burning helicopter). Thomas Wayne killed Joe Chill, yes. But it wasn't enough. He killed the monster that murdered his family (with his own gun too. That might actually be canon, but if it isn't, it is to me), but in his anger, he failed to realize that there was no monster, no dragon to kill, no giant to trick. There was just a desperate man, a man who had a twitchy trigger finger and a need for some cash. 

Thomas Wayne didn't realize that there were no monsters in Gotham City. People might say otherwise, pointing to lizard-men in the sewers and plants that could kill you from twenty feet away, but those aren't monsters. No, the real danger is the people. Because people can be just as ghastly, just as cruel, just as vicious as the demons in Hell. And that's in normal cities. In Gotham, in _Flashpoint_ Gotham, it's even worse. But they aren't monsters. They're just people. Which just makes it worse. 

So Thomas Wayne didn't get the closure he was looking for when he killed Joe Chill. He was looking for a dragon to slay. He just killed a pawn. Depending on some sources of canon, Bruce Wayne might have tried to or succeeded in killing Joe Chill. I think he chickened out, but I'm not sure. It's also possible that he fired a shot and missed. But anyway, he tried to kill Joe Chill, and like Thomas, didn't get the closure he wanted from it. But while Bruce had an epiphany that killing wouldn't help him at all, that to fight with non-lethal force would be best, Thomas just kept on killing. I don't think that he's still looking for that closure in killing, however. I think he's just so used to it, it's become part of the persona. 

Bruce doesn't ask Thomas to stop using guns. As for why there are two options. This being a more serious headcanon, the first one might be a bit out of place here, but I still like it. Bruce could just be a petty bastard and not ask Thomas to stop using guns, because he wants to underline the fact that _he's_ not waltzing in and asking Thomas to change his lifestyle. 

The other reason fits in a little better, but because I don't know the specifics, it's a little muddled. Bruce doesn't ask Thomas to stop using his guns because he accepts the fact that he isn't the same person as his father. They have the same DNA, yes, that's why the frigging blood test worked (and why he spent most of ten minutes staring at the screen in shock, questioning his very reality), but his Thomas Wayne, the man who raised him for the first (short) eight years of his life is six feet under, having been buried, undisturbed, for decades. This is sort of like the reason he's mostly okay with Red Hood using guns, I think? I haven't read those issues, because I haven't been able to find them online. I think he accepts that Jason isn't the same kid as Robin and that he's changed. At least, I like to think so. 

And like in that story arc with the smiley button thing, Bruce tells Thomas that he has children. In case it wasn't clear, that _he_ is referring to Bruce. Grammar sucks. 

And _who_ chooses just that moment to come running through the door, concerned as hell, saying something about Superman being in shock and saying there was some sort of emergency?

Why, Dick Grayson, AKA, Nightwing, himself!

Bruce could _kill_ Superman right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be a part three. This is a long, complex headcanon. Thank you for your patience, and have a nice day.
> 
> But seriously, the rising hit and kudos count makes me smile every time I see it. 
> 
> See ya!


	5. Goddamnit, Superman (part III of Flashpoint Headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Wayne is a grandfather. Both biologically and adopted. 
> 
> And APPARENTLY, they are vigilantes, too. 
> 
> And there's like, fifty of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School just got cancelled for two weeks. Use handsanitizer and wash your hands and stay safe everyone. 
> 
> Also, I hate typing on my phone. The little letter things are too EFFING SMALL AJDSJCHAJSJ
> 
> So sorry for any typos. I'll try to go back in and fix em if I see any.
> 
> Enjoy!

The costumed young man literally _skids_ to a stop when he sees the inhabitant of the cell. Seriously, there would have been an _eeerrrrt_ sound effect if this were a cartoon. He blinks once, twice, and then slowly turns around and walks away, lightly shutting the door behind him. On the other side of the door, both Bruce and Thomas can hear him yelling at Superman for not being more specific and "I thought he was dying, you super-powered idiot".

Bruce, being Bruce, is a little amused at Superman getting chewed out. 

Struggling to contain his smile (when did that get so easy to do?), he turns back to Thomas, who looks a little nonplussed. 

He coughs. "One of your children?"

"Yes. Nightwing." 

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "A vigilante?"

"Since I was nine," Nightwing say cheerily, sashaying back into the room. Right before the door closes, Bruce can catch a glance of a stunned Superman. "Bruce decided that letting an untrained elementary schooler run around alone and fight crime in pyjamas was worse than a trained elementary schooler flipping around with an experienced crime fighter and punching bad guys whilst protected by Kevlar."

Both Bruce and Thomas blink, trying to puzzle out what he just said. 

Nightwing alternated between pointing at Bruce and pointing at Thomas. "Scary resemblance, right there."

The door slid open yet _again,_ but this time, two figures walked in, both very much shorter than the three men already in the room. 

Ah, yes. Superman had also called Red Robin, in order to best explain how to send Thomas back to his own universe. However, both neglected to mention two very important things to each other. 

One. Red Robin didn't know that their extra-dimensional visitor was Thomas Wayne. 

Two. Superman didn't know that Red Robin was looking after Robin. 

And these two things are wholly responsible for what happened next. 

As Red Robin blinked and he saw the other Batman, saw Thomas Wayne's eyes staring at him, saw the gun holsters and the red Bat emblem, Robin, Damian Wayne, grandson to the Demon's Head, draws his katana and charges at the man in the cell, and then bounces off the force-field that contains the man. 

Red Robin cackled, Thomas coughs again (Bruce now suspects that this is how he covers his laughter), Bruce's lips twitch, and Nightwing immediately helps the little tyke up off of the ground, assuring him that it was a beautiful lunge, Dami, it really was. 

Robin, realizing that no one else seems alarmed by the man, feels a little foolish, but he'll be damned if he lets that show. 

So he levels his sword at the older man who looks so much like the man in the oil painting above the fireplace in the study (his _other_ grandfather, but he's not gonna think about that right now), and says "Identify yourself, imposter."

Thomas merely raises an eyebrow. "How old are you, kid?"

"Old enough to know how to kill you in seventy three different ways."

"Ah. League of Assassins, then," Thomas says. He looks to Bruce. "He looks like you. Biological?"

Okay, side note here. The reason why I'm referring to Bruce as Bruce and Thomas as Thomas is because neither of them have the cowls on. Bruce had taken his off during the slightly-aggressive heart-to-heart that they head earlier, and Thomas's is still back in the room where he attacked Flash and took it of in the first place. I'm referring to the others the ways that I am because they still have their masks on. 

Bruce nods. "Yes."

Thomas turns to the newcomers. "Let me guess," he says. "Red Robin and Robin."

"Bruce, what the hell-"

"Father-"

"My cowl is bugged," interrupts Thomas, tapping his ear. "I can hear Superman worrying loud and clear."

Red Robin waves his hand through the air. "You say you came here through a portal?" he asks. "Not on purpose, you just saw a portal and jumped through it."

Thomas shrugs. He has the decency to look embarrassed. 

Because seriously, who the hell just jumps through a random portal that slightly resembles the one Flash went through to get back to his own universe? 

The answer to that question is apparently Thomas Wayne. 

I need to admit something to you. I understand that this is all very unlikely. Surely, the Justice League has the tech to send Thomas back home. Thomas himself would surely not be this level-headed. Why would Superman call some of the Batkids to help with this situation in the first place? 

All very reasonable questions. And I'm going to give you an answer that I'm sure many of you will hate. 

Because I say so, dammit. 

But I'm asking you to stay with me just a little bit longer and this is going to get a little more unlikely. 

Because you know there's more than just three Batkids. There are, by my count, at least four more to introduce. Two of which I can't include because I just don't know them well enough. I'm sorry, Cass and Duke fans. I know, I know, there are Harper and Cullen, but I have literally never heard of them before until two weeks ago, so I'm sorry. 

"Buenos dias, fuckers," calls a muscular young man just a hair shorter than Bruce as he kicks open the door. He's wearing a leather jacket, body armor with a red bat on the chest (very similar to Thomas's), two gun holsters on his thighs (again, similar to Thomas), and a red helmet with two white eyes over his head. A girl in purple with long blonde hair follows him, holding some churros in her hand. 

"We stopped for churros on the way," says the girl in purple. However, she almost drops her precious cargo as the man in front of her stops suddenly, seeing the man in the cell. "Jesus, Jason, what the hell-"

Yes, this is Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the second Robin, the one that died, the one who was able to make the Bat laugh on his most somber night. This is the killer with a heart of gold, the Bat who uses guns, the friend of any working girl on the street, the man who carried around eight severed heads in a duffle bag, the man with balls of steel so sturdy that he once jacked the Batmobile's tires and then hit Batman himself with a tire iron. 

Jason, clearly, is a badass. 

But no amount of badassery will prepare someone for something like then. 

Jason is speechless. He takes off the helmet, revealing the domino mask beneath. His eyes take in the familiar face, the Batsuit, the utility belt, and then alight on the gun holsters. 

I really don't know how Jason would react. Whenever Jason kills, it's usually a rapist, a drug-pusher who targets kids, or a John who got rough with one of the corner girls. Thomas kills because it's convenient. No matter what the guy did or didn't do. 

Jason doesn't know the whole story, and even if he did, he's a really complex character to understand. He doesn't know that Thomas isn't using rubber bullets. He doesn't know that Martha Wayne is the Joker. He doesn't know if there's been a Robin for him, if the Joker is dead, or what Thomas lost in that alleyway on that night. 

I've been talking about Jason, but I also need to talk about Stephanie, because she's seen who's in the cell too. I don't know who she is at the moment, because I like her as Spoiler, but I also like Cass as Black Bat.

But Stephanie sees Thomas Wayne, and the first thing she does is actually drop her churros. She knows that Bruce has issues about his parents. I mean, who wouldn't? Her mom doesn't now that she puts on a mask every night and flies with the Bats. She's constantly wondering if she would approve of her doing so. She knows her father wouldn't, but screw him. He's a piece of shit. 

Bruce however, had two parents who were great people. Bruce, unlike most of them, had a loving mother and a father for the first eight years of his life. I mean, Dick did too, by all accounts, his parents were wonderful people. So it's _most of them,_ not _all of them._

I suppose then that it makes his trauma all the more jarring. How could any kid expect his parents to be shot dead in front of them? At that age, would little Bruce even have a concept of death? Surely, his grandparents would be dead, and perhaps he visited their graves when he was young (see graves at my heels, by Pomfry, incredible, it made me cry), but the only idea he would have would be a headstone, engraved with words that he didn't understand. 

Death, for him before the alley, would be a peaceful place with two headstones, perhaps with a warm breeze or gently falling leaves. 

Death wouldn't be two thunderous shots of a gun _(bang_ _**bang** )_, cut-off screams of terror _(Bruce, run! - You've killed him-!)_ , fading lights in eyes _(No no no please- )_ , falling pearls _(clink clink **clink** smeared with blood)_, and hands and knees and cheeks stained red with blood that wasn't his _(red that would stay no matter how many tears he cried, no matter how many times he scrubbed his hands raw)_. 

Bruce had a relationship with death since he was very young. 

And that's just one of the issues he had. There would be the constant doubt that plagued him, wondering whether his parents would approve of him fighting his way, not mourning them and moving on like a good son would. 

Whether or not he was just killing the city that he wants to save, that his parents tried to save. 

(And look what the city gave them in return.)

Stephanie Brown also had a very negative relationship in her life when she was young. But it wasn't some nebulous connection with an abstract idea. No, it was her genetic connection to Arthur Brown, the Cluemaster, a cheap Riddler knockoff that took out his frustration on his family. 

She took her anger, her burning hatred of the man who was supposed to raise her, the man who should've taught her how to drive, not how to dodge a beer bottle, the man who should have driven her to prom whilst glaring at her date, not have tried to entangle her in deadly plots and botched bank robberies as a sidekick, and she took that anger and she ruined, she _spoiled_ her father's plans in return for her razed childhood. 

Stephanie Brown knows that Bruce Wayne has parent issues. So she stays silent for once, knowing that this will end either really badly or really well.

Bruce nor Thomas nor Dick nor Tim nor Damian say anything. Bruce is scared of shattering the tenuous relationship he's slowly been rebuilding with Jason. Dick is watchful of everyone in the room, eyes flying to everyone, trying to parse the thick emotions in the air. Tim is running calculations, trying to determine what he needs to do, who he needs to protect if fighting breaks out, all determined on who starts the battle first. Damian, perhaps, is just waiting for the fight. Thomas is quiet, calm, having some recognition of the type of person Jason is. 

And then Jason speaks. 

"Is he dead where you come from?"

Bruce flinches infinitesimally. So do Dick and Tim. Stephanie was never so embroiled in the huge debate. Damian either wasn't there or has already come to peace with the two different sides. 

Thomas makes more of all of this, though he doesn't have the slightest clue who they're talking about. Of course, they're talking about the Joker. But you must remember, Thomas's Joker is female. His former wife. Bruce's mother. 

"I've killed a lot of people. You're going to have to be more specific." This isn't a joke, sadly.

Jason goes for the kill. "The Joker."

This time, it's Thomas who flinches, in more of a full-bodied jerk as his eyes flash with a combination of fear and sadness and something else that makes Bruce unsteady.

"The Joker's in this universe? Who is she?"

And there it is. The cat's out of the bag. The Joker is a she in the Flashpoint universe. 

"She? What do you mean, she?" asks Tim. 

"The Joker's a woman in my world," Thomas says. "She's not dead."

"That's weird," Stephanie says. "We have no idea who the hell he is. Bastard said it himself. He's just the Joker and nothing else."

"You seem to know who yours is," says Damian, looking at Thomas. "Who?"

And that right there is the question that Thomas hoped no one would ask. 

But seriously, how awkward is it? 

Thomas is feeling that he should rip if off like a Bandaid. Just get it over with already. 

"Martha Kane is the Joker."

If anyone had been drinking anything in that room, they would have done a spit take. 

Faintly, everyone can hear a squawked "WHAT" from beyond the door, followed by shushing noises.

Bruce, having prayed to God, cursed Jesus, thought of every swear word he knows (and he knows many; he's able to swear in _paragraphs_ ), questioned the universe as a whole, died a little more inside, has already compartmentalized this brand-new, amazing little fact. He sighs and stands up. 

"I'll go take care of our eavesdroppers," he says. "Red Robin, see of you can find out how our guest got here. Nightwing, call Oracle. See if any strange power surges happened in the last two hours. Red Hood, Batgirl **(flipped a coin on this one)** , ask around if any magic users have been poking in something they shouldn't have. Robin, come with me."

Bruce picks up his cowl and puts it on his head, and the Bat and his bird make their way out to a sheepish Justice League. Thomas can already tell that they're in some pretty deep shit. 

"Do I need to remind you about _boundaries_ again?" he heads before the doors shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop has recently died, in the big, blue screen of death way. And google docs has decided to be a little shit, and refuse to even load on the app on my phone. So I'm super sorry that I'm taking so long. 
> 
> I'm posting this from my phone after copying it from Pure Writer, a brilliant writing that that is completely free (I think there's some upgrades you can purchase, but it's usable without them) and best of all, IT DOESN'T DUCKING DELETE ALL YOUR LIFE'S WORK
> 
> Okay, consider this headcanon finished for now. The next chapter will probably be something different. 
> 
> See ya!


	6. Incorrect Quotes From The Council of Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, the Council is batshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kept my promise! Chapter is complete!

The Council of Nocturne has many interactions with others outside of its circle. Here are some that I've thought up.

* * *

"So... Who are you?" asks Jim Gordon, Commissioner of the GCPD. He's looking at the man who just came out of the portal, broad, muscular, and in a Batsuit. He's slowly getting used to these sorts of things happening, ever since that first night. 

The stranger is different this time around. He's wearing and armored costume resembling a bat, with the ears, the gauntlets and the billowing black cape, but the details are red, blood red. 

Oh yeah, and the two guns the man has strapped to him. Jim is tempted to look outside for flying pigs or the Joker doing humanitarian work. 

But this is Gotham and the Joker is nuts. He might see either. 

But really, he'd thought it'd be a cold day in Hell when he'd see a Batman packing heat. 

And alcohol, too. The man takes a swig from a silver flask, so much like Bullock that for one delirious moment he thinks that the other man is playing a prank on him. 

But no. The other man, who is reclining in an armchair, his bulk is pure muscle, not a beer belly. 

"I drink," he says as he swallows his liquor and caps the flask. "And I know things."

A strange wheezing sound comes from behind him and he sees his Batman standing in the doorway, right behind the one young man who wears the Batsuit with no cape and long ears and retractable wings. The latter is leaning on Jim's desk and practically crying with amusement. 

A strangled grunt comes from the regular Bat. 

"Flashpoint, _no-_ " 

Oh, that's right, they call each other names like Flashpoint or Beyond, or sometimes just numbers. 

"Flashpoint _yes,_ " the other man says, standing up. A flash of blue light swallows the three figures and Jim is left alone in his office, questioning whether or not a Batman from another dimension just answered him with a frigging _Game of Thrones_ reference.

* * *

You guys ever seen _Gotham_? Y'all should, it's amazing. Alfred, especially. Badass dude there. So I postulate that this universe is not only involved with the Council of Nocturne, but that Alfred Pennyworth is a very vocal member. 

Behold.

* * *

"Aren't you batty blokes supposed to be keeping him out of trouble, not showing him how to get himself in it?" the older British man says. 

He's standing before the Council. He's not intimidated by the various Bats. On the contrary, they looked a little scared of him. Beside him there is a young Bruce Wayne, head in his hands, occasionally making a sound of embarrassment, of which he seems to be suffering a terminal case of. His hands are hiding his black eye and bloody nose, which Alfred had made sure wasn't broken and has mostly stopped bleeding before they went to the Council. He's angry, not cruel. 

"Alfred, I had a good reason!" the young boy protests. 

"Well, you didn't seem inclined to tell it to the mother of the boy you laid a beat-down on, now did you?"

"Wait," one of the masked figures says. "What was the other boy's name?"

Young Bruce looks up. "Richard McFlint," he says. 

The Council shifts in their chairs, the effect eerie, like grass swaying in the wind. One says "Oh," with such an air of hostility that Alfred can't help but think that they're taking Bruce's side. 

"What do you mean?" Alfred is pleased to see that he's not the only one confused by the open hostility to Richard McFlint. The man who spoke was one of the older members, who had red details and two gun holsters. Sometimes, he had a flask with him, though those instances were becoming less frequent. 

"I mean," one of the others started, "that Richard McFlint is a slimy little-"

He was cut off by another. This one raised his hand and said, "Let the kid speak. I'm sure he'll have a pretty damn good reason."

The boy took a deep breath. "Well, he called Selina a street whore," he began.

"I'm sorry, he did _what-_ "

"Shut up-"

" _You_ shut up!"

"Be quiet," the man with the guns said. They immediately quieted. "What else?"

Bruce seemed to shrink a little. Why? No clue. Kid should be standing tall. 

"Well, he called my mother a slut and that's why she got, and I quote, 'popped off in some piece-of-shit alley.'"

Silence. Utter, frigid, silence. 

This is broken by the man with the guns. 

"You better have fucking broken his nose," he says. 

"Well, he did," says Alfred. "And his wrist. And a rib."

"Good man," says another. "Someone get this kid ice cream."

Alfred sighs. Far be it from him to punish Bruce for defending his mother's honor, God rest her soul, but still. 

"I'd thought there would be some kind of lesson here, not 'violence is the answer,'" he says. 

"Oh, violence is never the answer," says one. "Violence is a question."

"And the answer is yes," says the man with the guns. 

Really, Alfred should have expected that. 

" _No_ ," many say at once. 

"God, no, the lesson is that violence with a good reason is sometimes necessary," one says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"So... Punch assholes that deserve it?" asks young Bruce hopefully. 

"Yeah, I guess."

Poor Alfred. He was not prepared for this.

* * *

This next one is in a universe where the GCPD and Batman don't like each other, but for the moment, they need to either work with each other or listen to Batman.

* * *

"Who the hell are you?" the cop asks, leveling his gun at the newcomer. He's wearing a Batsuit, but last he checked, Batman didn't travel via portals and he was also back inside the GCPD. 

The cop starts shaking a little as the dark figure strides closer to him, cape billowing in the inky night. 

"Batman. Different universe. More of us are coming." The figure strides past him, the officer turning and trying to catch up with the long, purposeful strides. 

"The hell do you mean, different universe?"

"That there are over a thousand universes where something different happened, and in each universe, there is a different type of Batman," another voice says helpfully. The poor guy nearly gets whiplash as he turns his head to see another Batman, this time slimmer, with no cape and longer ears. The bat on his chest is glowing a bright red. "We got together so we'd know if some bad shit was going down in another universe and whoever was there needed help."

At that point, they had reached the doors of the GCPD, where four heavily armed men stood guard. 

"Stop, or we will fire!" one shouts. The cop stops. The two others don't. 

A crack of a gunshot. The slim one grunts a little and picks up the flattened bullet off of the ground. 

"Yeah, we don't take orders from you," the other says, voice dark and menacing, almost as terrifying as the first time they had ever interacted with Batman. 

"We take orders from him." He points, and they see the dark but familiar figure of Batman on the rooftop. He glides down ( _since when could he do that,_ the cop wonders) and rises, eyes hard and cape flowing from his shoulders like dark wings. 

"I told the Council to stay out of this," he growls, and the five non-bats shrink back a little in fear. Holy hell, can Batman be scary when he wants to. 

The slimmer (younger) one looks around in fake confusion. 

"I'm sorry," he says, crossing his arms and looking like Superman himself couldn't move him if he tried. "I couldn't find the shit I was supposed to give." 

* * *

Last one. Short and sweet.

* * *

"Oh, hell," Hal Jordan says. He's looking in the conference room that the Council had commandeered for a short while. "There are _more_ of you?"

Hearing his initial groan of severe emotional distress, the rest of the League has gathered. 

Their Batman, their Bruce, has laid his head on the desk uttered "Goddammit," so quietly, only Superman can head it. 

"God, Bruce, you didn't tell them about us?" one asks. "I'm so insulted."

"Who are you?" Superman asks, dumbfounded. Bruce isn't in any danger, that much he can tell. But everything else? Total mystery. 

"We're his _other_ family," one particularly young-looking Batman says, grinning. 

"Dear God, stop it, you're clearly embarrassing him," a woman - wait, _woman_? Yes, woman - chides. 

"Good. Deserves it for keeping secrets," another says. "Come on, I thought we were working on this!" 

"Okay, but how the hell does one just say, 'Oh, I'm working with other alternate versions of myself to keep worlds stable' in a regular conversation?" another asks. 

It dissolves into arguments and counterarguments flying around so quick that even Barry's head spins. 

Ah, yes. Welcome to the crazy, Justice League. There are always reasons why Batman keeps secrets from you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More will come, I promise.
> 
> Please comment and tell me what you think. Any requests?


	7. Batman and Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin. Also contains: spells, Batman as Animal Control, and exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these parts take place in s universe where the GCPD has a pretty good relationship with the Batfamily. It would just need to work that way.

There are good magic users and bad magic users. Of those people, they're about even split. Then there are the asshats who pick up a book one day, find a spell, and decide that they're the next Harry Potter.

In Gotham, there seems to be a stupidly large number of the last category. 

The worst part is, the spells that these people find all center around one theme. Animals. They turn the object of the spell into an animal. 

Without fail. Every. Single. Time. 

The average is about one transformation every six months. Some might say that isn't too bad. Batman would disagree. Not only does he get the whole spiel about "Now you're _really_ going to be a _Bat_ man" blah blah blah, but half the time, they're so far off the mark, it's almost funny. 

One. There's already a Man-Bat. Kirk Langstrom. Nice guy. Fun to hang with. Hella smart. Has the unfortunate tendency to turn into a bat-like monster with a hankering for humans. 

Two. Most of the time, he doesn't _turn into a bat._

Gasp! But he's Batman! Yeah, he is. But spells, at least spells in the hands of wannabe wizards, don't work that way. You have to have control over the spell, not just say the words and point your hand. To consciously turn someone into an animal that the caster chooses takes a lot of effort. 

If the caster doesn't put that effort in, which, half the time, they don't, the spell usually just picks an animal based on the victim's emotions, actions, mental state, and environment. Because Batman usually isn't eating insects, hanging upside down, or in a cave when he's hit with these spells, it's not very often that he gets turned into a bat by chance. 

What he _does_ get turned into are predators. 

It would make sense, right? Batman, above all things, besides a guardian, is a hunter. He goes out almost every night and seeks out criminals, monsters, bad guys, to fight. Gotham is his territory. 

He's been turned into a lion, a tiger, hell, a bear (oh my), once, when Robin was in danger. 

Which was weird, because the phrase was _mama_ bear, right? Whatever. He was pissed and Robin was hurt and he was having absolutely _none_ of that shit, thank you very much. 

All black, of course. Because why the hell not. 

There was one strange instance where the caster was a little bit more talented than the rest, but not nearly enough to choose what type of animal Batman became. 

Not only did it effect him, but it effected Robin, Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Black Bat, who was visiting from Hong Kong for a bit and wanted to help. 

And, well. Now he knew why werewolves were so pissed off. That shit _hurt._

Yeah. The Bats of Gotham turned into the Wolves of Gotham. Interestingly enough, there is a universe where this is normal. The Batfamily is a bunch of lycanthropes. This may or may not be actual canon, but according to me, it is. 

Regardless, the wannabe wizard just about shit himself when he was confronted with a pack of angry, snarling wolves looking like they were about to tear his face off. 

There was a fair bit of distance between them, so he decided to take off running, hoping to lose them in the twisting alleys. 

The GCPD, who were staying back, realizing that to interfere would be to get magically kicked in the ass (seriously, _magic?_ This city, they swear-), are treated to the awe-inspiring sight of a pack of wolves running smoothly and silently after the magician, the huge black wolf in the lead and younger wolves, the youngest looking just older than a puppy, sprinting along just behind him. 

Needless to say, the poor guy didn't make it a block. Gordon didn't know where the wolves went or how they returned to normal, but after just a week, the Bat was back. 

But what about the times that Batman _is_ successfully turned into a bat? Well, people don't often realize two things about bats. 

One. How _big_ bats can actually get. The largest bats, the giant golden-crowned flying fox, can have wingspans over five feet long. That's larger than your average twelve-year-old.

Two. How scary bats can be. Sure, many of them will not harm you, and many of them are actually quite cute, but those are regular bats. Not bats with an IQ level of a very smart human and enough anger to match the Hulk. 

Not to mention, Batman himself knows how scary bats can be when one's in your face and hair. 

So you bet your ass that he's going to be flapping and screeching and generally acting like something straight out of hell. 

One thing that I'd like to think would happen is that sometimes he can understand others of the same species that he got turned into. Not that there would be many tigers or lions in Gotham, but there are a ton of bats. 

Bats that have been sorta-trained by Batman. 

Just imagine. You think you've won. You have just turned the mighty Batman into an actual bat. You have magical powers humming at your fingertips. And then-

The sound. The sound of hundred, of thousands of leathery wings flapping in the air, coming right to you. Screeches fill the night sky, ringing off walls, off gargoyles, until it makes the very air shake. 

And then you realize. 

Batman.

Bat. Man. 

Bats. 

_Oh shit._

And then you're surrounded on all sides, surrounded by wings and fur and class and you think _this might be it._

Badass. 

But this isn't just about the times Batman has turned into animals. No. This is about Batman and animals. 

Like I said before, there are bats in the Cave that Batman has totally sorta-trained. Maybe to try to get over his fear of them. Maybe because he was bored and had nothing better to do with his time. 

But yeah. They have names. They respond to said names. And he totally has stands where they can hang from and chill. 

Just to bring in the Council of Nocturne on this, because I just love that idea, some of the members are baffled by the ease with which they handle the bats. Some are still terrified of the things and actively try to avoid them. 

The Bats who are okay with the little flying mammals find this hilarious. 

The GCPD has seen clouds of bats mysteriously descend from the sky and envelope whoever Batman is fighting at the time. Usually, it's after he's been smacked around a little, by Bane or Killer Croc or whoever. And Batman doesn't do anything. He stands there, most often shrouded in darkness, white lenses staring impassionately as the whirlwind of screeches continues. 

Then, he walks in, disappearing into the swarm, and a few seconds later, the cloud of bats bursts away, with the enemy on the ground and the Bat standing triumphant. 

They thought he was a demon or something for a while after that. They got over it, in time. 

Once, the GCPD had a little bit of a bat problem and everyone was panicking, trying to hit it with a broom, and Jim Gordon completely freaks out and lights up the Bat-signal because he has no idea what to do. 

So Batman comes inside the GCPD for once and just gives everyone this look, like, _what the fresh hell are you doing, you morons,_ and just walks over to the cowering bat, coaxes it down, and walks out the front with the animal hanging from his arm like it's totally normal. 

He walks back in, sighs, and says, "There are better ways."

And then he walks back out. Because he's Batman. 

But other animals, like dogs, cats, and others seem to trust Batman. Guard dogs in Gotham are not trained humanely. They're abused until they try to attack any human that they see. But then comes this strangely dressed human, one who doesn't reek of booze and cigarettes and doesn't shout or yell. As a matter of fact, this human gives them treats and pats and takes them to a place where they get better. 

(Bruce Wayne totally sets up shelters for abused animals and checks on each dog or cat every month and brings them treats just because he can. Being a billionaire has its perks.)

Cats seem to warily respect Batman. Cats don't really trust anyone, well, other than Catwoman. They respect him because they see that he's a hunter, just like them, and because of the fact that Catwoman likes him.

There's Ace, of course, and I love him so much. In my headcanon, he's a mix between a German Shepherd and a Great Dane. These dogs are called Great Shepherds. He tags along with Batman, and it's like Milo Murphy's Law, with Diogi, but he did chase down Joker and sit on him with all 130 pounds of doggo. 

He's goofy at times and sometimes has this stupidly cute doggy grin on his face, but other times, he could pass for a wolf by the way he snaps and snarls at criminals. 

(The GCPD _dotes_ on him. They love him. And really, how could they not?)

Animal Control never has much luck in Gotham. Not because there are too many animals to help or that there aren't all that many, but because animals in Gotham seem to be smarter than other animals. They ignore traps, break their equipment (and some that's metal), and generally don't trust anyone at all. Even on the rare occasion that they do rescue an animal, many times they'll adopt it out and then see it on the streets later on. 

Batman, however, is another story. They've seen Batman walk up to a snarling dog, wait until it's exhausted itself from trying to attack him, and then earn the dog's trust to pick them up and get a collar on them. Occasionally, when he knows that Animal Control is there, having sent someone along, he'll gently move aside a dumpster and show the small nest of whining puppies that that dog was protecting. 

"They don't act without reason," he said quietly, once. "You have to find that reason and show that you're not a threat. They don't care what sounds are coming out of your mouth. They care about what they see. And if hey see traps, choke chains, and muzzles, then they're not going to trust you, ever."

After he had melted into the shadows, one officer said, "He was feeling chatty."

Animal Control decides that they're not going to take the advice of someone who fights crime in a bat costume. 

They still don't have any luck in Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my other stories just got a new chapter! Please, comment and check it out!
> 
> See ya!


	8. Identity Reveals and Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs and Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Bruce Wayne is Batman. 

Four words that are very common in our lives. After all, Bruce Wayne is a fictional character, a fictional vigilante in a fictional city with a fictional life. 

But in this world? In the worlds that we make, that we spin our takes in, that we put through fire and ice and make them continue existing, just because we can?

Oh, those four words are a secret. They are a huge secret. 

To say them, depending on who you're talking to, could be ludicrous, deadly, or life-changing. 

But what canon had gotten right sometimes is the fallout that happens because of those words. Sometimes, it's those words being put into action. 

Like Scarecrow did. In the video game. 

And hoo boy, was the fallout massive. 

But before I address the secret ending, let's look at some of the dialogue that you get when you complete the side missions after the big reveal. 

Oswald Cobblepot curses the Waynes. After all, he does blame them for his family's financial situation. Nothing surprising there. 

There are others, but I can't remember them. The only other one I remember is Deacon Blackfire. 

He's locked up in the GCPD holding cell. He says something about adding avarice to the list of sins. 

When I heard this, I got angry. Really, really angry. How dare he? Does he know what it meant when Bruce Wayne inherited that fortune? Does he know that Bruce would have never wanted that money, would have given it all up in an instant if it meant having his parents back? Does he know how much Wayne Enterprises has helped Gotham through charity and fundraisers? Bruce Wayne had given millions of dollars for humanitarian work in Gotham over the years, and you accuse him of being selfish? 

But besides that was what Officer Aaron Cash said. Now again, this was years and years ago. I don't remember exactly what he said. But I remember his air of nonchalance, how much he didn't care who Batman was. 

He recognized that with or without the cowl, that man had done good in the city. And he respected that. 

There was also a simply _golden_ line about how the governor sent out an arrest warrant for Bruce Wayne, but the fax machine was mysteriously broken. 

Side headcanon here: it wasn't actually broken and when some dipshit pointed that out, three coffee mugs, two staplers, and a random shoe came flying out of nowhere and turned the thing into a large paperweight. 

Aaron Cash: "YEP, SURE LOOKS BROKEN TO ME!"

Anywho, spoilers for the secret ending here. 

After Wayne Manor explodes and Bruce Wayne, Batman, is presumed dead, two things happen. One is canon mixed with a dash of headcanon, and the other I made up. 

One. A new Batman shows up. This is canon. The dash of headcanon that I add is that this new Batman isn't Bruce Wayne, but is instead, Terry McGinnis. There are a few videos online that support this, and I suggest you go check them out. 

Two: videos are sent into the GCPD. They're labled "Watch Me." Cautiously, because this is Gotham, and you never know, they watch them. 

They're... strange.

Surely, they're pre-recorded. Because Bruce Wayne is dead. There's no way. 

_"Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,"_ a young man's voice says. It doesn't sound familiar. _"Bruce, are you Batman?"_

The camera focuses on none other than Bruce Wayne, sitting at a table and reading a book. He looks like he's outside. If one strains their ears, they can make out the sound of the waves. 

The man looks up and fixes the camera with a flat stare that is completely Batman. 

Out of nowhere, he throws a Batarang at a butterfly, slicing it nearly in two. He hasn't looked away from the camera. 

_"I think that answers your question,"_ he says, sounding the smallest bit pleased with himself. 

_"Bruce, what the hell, why would you do that-"_

The older man looks at where the weapon went.

 _"I thought it was a bee,"_ he said, shocked. _"I swear, I thought it was a bee."_

_"God, only you, Bruce-"_

The video cuts out. 

Someone leaks the footage, and the Gotham media goes nuts. This, coupled with the new Batman, makes wild theories abound. 

Then more videos come in. About once every six months. Always with the young camera man, always with Wayne in the shot. Sometimes, you can just barely see a glimpse of Alfred Pennyworth. 

The weirdest part is the songs. 

Embedded in every video is a certain song. 

In that first video, it was Legends Never Die. 

In another, regarding Wayne Manor, was Let it Burn.

Regarding GCPD, Warriors. 

There was one particularly chilling video. This was the exception to the others. It was labeled "Questions to Gotham."

It was just Wayne. It was night. You couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything but faint ocean noises, the chirp of crickets, and his voice, measured and solid and recognizably Batman. 

Gotham was coming to terms with the fact that the Bruce Wayne that they knew, "Brucie," was nothing more than a mask. 

_"Why were you gathered in front of the Manor, before the Protocol activated? Was it to catch a glimpse of the hero unmasked?"_ His voice was slightly bitter. _"Or was it to take revenge, to let the masked monster know it wasn't scary anymore? I think that would be more fitting. I've failed Gotham. Too many times, I've not been enough to drag this city into the light. I wouldn't blame you, if you hated me. I can live with that. I was supposed to be a protector. So that the alleyways would be safe. I never wanted Gotham to fear me. I never wanted any good citizen to fear the Bat. For murderers, for gangs, for criminals, it was the opposite. A Boogeyman, a ghost that vanished into the night, it was necessary."_

A pause. 

_"I wonder when that tactic started to fail."_

The song? Believer. 

And Gotham can't help but think that the song's strangely appropriate.

Pain, oh let the bullets fly, oh, let them rain. 

Anyone in Gotham could tell you that those words held true. 

These videos became a regular occurrence. No one knew where they came from. Superman was always either off-world or caught up in something to try to track down the island. 

Sometimes, Gotham had suspicions. Sometimes, they thought they saw the original Bat in the shadows, on the rooftops. Sometimes, someone would turn on the Bat-signal. Sometimes, they say, the Bat will answer this call, and your chances are better if the new Mayor, the longtime friend of the Bat, is with you. 

But you'll never see him. You'll feel his presence. The darkness with get a bit more darker. The blackness just a little more comfortable. Sometimes, there is the crunch of gravel and the swish of a heavy Kevlar cape. 

But you'll never see him. 

However if you listen hard, stay very quiet, and let the spirit of Gotham surround you, the blood, bullets, pain and joy of it all, and simply _exist,_ then...

You might just hear a few bars of a song. 

A song that shows how Gotham is doing, how the hidden heroes are faring. 

Listen. Can you hear it?

They say it's a good sign. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, and tell me what you think!
> 
> See ya!


	9. Shadows in Gotham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magicians really shouldn't mess with Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an idea that I had. I guess this is complete, but it feels unfinished. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Remember when I was talking about random people who pick up a book and think they're the new Harry Potter? And how there seems to be a stupidly large number of them in Gotham? 

Well, they don't just turn Batman into various animals. Okay, it's a lot of the time, but there's a few instances where different things happen. 

One such instance I've thought up is a fun one, I think. 

So this upstart magician is there, having run around Gotham being a pain in the ass, and he's standing in front of Batman, who is so done with this. For funsies, let's say that it's the anniversary of the night of The Tragedy. The night Park Row became Crime Alley. The night Batman was born. He's already not having a good time tonight, and this guy isn't making him any happier. 

So far, Larry Totter over here has just been throwing around bolts of magical energy that make loud noises. They're like fireworks, except they come from his hands. Annoying, yes, but nothing too difficult for the Dark Knight. 

And then, and then this pompous two-bit wizard makes this piss-poor attempt at an evil cackle, and he's like, "Why so gloomy, Dark Knight? You should lighten up!"

And the flash-bang effect that Batman is expecting doesn't come. Instead, wherever they're fighting gets even darker, colder, and great, whispering from nowhere. Fantastic. 

Usually, this is his scene. Creepy factor is through the roof. And then he would come bursting through the roof, scaring whatever no-goodniks were below. 

But instead, it's Batman whirling around in the darkness, trying to see whatever he can. However, the lenses on the cowl aren't picking anything up. No heat signatures, no nothing. 

Stupid magic. 

Barry Jotter's voice comes echoing around him, smug and satisfied and practically begging for a punch in the face. Except, he's not really saying that, but the tone is was matters. 

"I thought you liked the darkness, Batman," Darry Lotter says. "But I wouldn't blame you. Tell me, how many people have you failed to save?"

A lot, his traitorous mind thinks.

"I found this spell to be particularly useful on people who have quite a few skeletons in their closet," he says. Batman still can't get a bead on where the hell the caster is. "You see, none of us ever truly stop fearing the dark. None of us ever truly make peace with our past."

There. Four meters in front of him, one meter to the left. 

"I wonder what your shadows are, Dark Knight."

That's right. Keep talking.

"I wonder how many of them you have."

The whispering reaches a fever pitch, then everything goes silent. Batman pauses. Something's not right.

Evidently, Gary Rotter realizes that too. 

"Well, that's never happened before," he muses. "Usually there's screaming right about now."

Before Batman can thank his luck and pin the man, all doors slam shut, echoing in the space. The only exits now are the holes in the roof, and Batman's pretty sure that he other man doesn't have a grapple gun. 

A snickering laugh reaches their ears. Terrifying to the magician. Terrifyingly familiar to Batman. 

He knows who that is. But that person's been dead for years. 

Jason Todd didn't come back as the fledgling that was at the Bat's side. No, he came back a hawk, beak sharp and talons bloody, extended for the kill.

Shadows. Not ghosts. Shadows. 

Regrets. 

Okay.

The darkness clears fractionally, and Batman can just make out the fast-moving figure of darkness, leaping around the area. The magician seems to be frozen in terror. 

The small figure (a child, a child, beaten and bloody but not broken, brave to the end, wearing a costume that marked him for death, ripped cape and armor that wasn't strong enough, a soldier who should have never been drafted, because children are not soldiers) comes to a stop between the two men, made of shadow, but the eyes of the domino mask are white, and so is the smile, the grin, natural and mischievous and so familiar it makes Batman's (Bruce's, the father's) heart ache. 

And then the shadow turns to the magician and laughs again.

The magician tries to run for it. 

The Bat and his bird don't let him get far.

It's familiar, familiar as breathing, and it's second nature to remember the patterns of flight between the two. He ties the man, who is hyperventilating, and leaves him for Gordon to find. He goes through the roof, the moon shining brightly above. 

The shadow follows him.

Batman lingers. In the moonlight, the shadow seems halfway there, faded. 

"I'm sorry," he offers. "I'm so, so sorry."

The shadow shakes his head. He points to his chest. Then at Batman's. And then to the Narrows, where the Red Hood is watching for trouble. 

I'm not going to say what this means. Because that is for Batman to figure out. And though this may be a story, though I may be writing this, I cannot say how a character will definitely act. Batman is a legend, one of the gods of America, a hero, a villain, a vigilante. A patchwork of decades and writers and artists. 

What does it mean to you?

The shadow fades and takes something with it. A small burden, perhaps. 

As much as Batman would like to hang around and ponder this strange event, realizing that he never contacted Gordon that... God, I've run out of Harry Potter alterations. He never told Gordon that the magician was apprehended. Deciding that he would just take the man to the GCPD himself, he drops back down. The scene fades to black. 

Cut back to the rooftop of the GCPD, where the Bat-signal is shining and Jim Gordon is waiting. 

Batman appears out of the shadows, dragging the bound criminal behind him, somehow having got the trussed-up man on top of the roof. 

"Here's the man who was throwing around magic," the Bat says. 

Gordon nods, blowing a smoke ring. He's just recently learned how to do that and now he won't stop. "You catch him alright?" Because the last thing he needs is Batman suddenly turning into a moose and having to somehow get a moose down from a rooftop. 

"Hit me with something. Wore off," the vigilante grunts. Jim Gordon looks up and goes a little pale. 

Scratch that. He'd rather the moose. 

"Are you sure?" he asks. "Because your shadow is moving. Peter Pan style."

It is. Morphing and twisting and looming and it's really freaking Gordon out. But there are noises, too, noises that had no place being on the rooftop. Gunshots, a clicking sound, swords sharpening, cries of pain, crying, all so faint that one could believe that they weren't there at all. 

Batman looks behind him. He doesn't seem surprised. "Frankly, I should have expected this," he says. He turns back. "I'll be fine."

And somehow, he fades into shadow once more, even with Gordon directly looking at him. 

"Damn magician yourself," he mutters.

He blows another smoke ring before going back inside. 

Batman is making his way back to the Batmobile, which he had left hidden somewhere near the site of The Tragedy. He had already laid the roses down at the correct time. But he has a sinking suspicion that something else will be there. 

But the shadows, the shadows of his parents, they're not there. But his own shadow, the shadow of Batman, seems to grow more solid like a separate entity. 

"This was where they died," he murmurs. "Why aren't they here?"

_No. This was where I was born. They are not your regrets. Your perceived guilt is._

The words aren't spoken, exactly, but he can hear them, plain as day. 

Batman (Bruce, the son, the little boy) wants to laugh. "This is a place of death," he says so quietly he doubts Superman could hear him. "As if anything could be born here." _As if I regret Batman,_ he silently thinks. _As if Batman is my guilt._

And it's not, not really. Bruce, I believe, does blame himself, at least a little, for the death of his parents. But his vow shows that Batman is a promise, not guilt. 

_Blood and pearls and two bullets. Do you really want those few things to force you to be who you are?_

"I choose to be who I am."

_Then actually believe that._

Batman has the feeling that he passed a rest, though he has no idea what. He stares down at the roses for a minute, for an eternity. 

Red as red, red as blood, bloody pearls falling. 

He's just about to head for the Batmobile and get home when the Bat-signal flicks back on, calling him to his crusade once more. 

He gets to the rooftop again to find Jim Gordon looking ready to kill someone. 

"He escaped," he says tightly. "The bastard escaped. Pulled some Houdini shit and bolted once he got out of his handcuffs. Zapped two of my men on his way out. Second-degree burns all the way through Kevlar."

"On it," the Bat says and leaps off the building, gliding down slowly, scanning for the specified biometrics. 

He finds the guy not twelve blocks away, already trying to rob a twenty-four hour bank. 

He crashes through a skylight, shocking the exhausted and terrified civilians who are lined up against the walls. The magician turns around with a wide smile, looking like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in months. 

"Back for more, eh?" he asks. In response, Batman pulls out a Batarang and prepares to throw it. 

"I don't exactly know what went wrong the first time, but let's hope that this time works a little better!"

The darkness, the cold, the whispers. There are a few cries of alarm from the civilians, but they're quickly silenced. Batman moves over to where the caster is. The blackness is so thick that the dumbass can't even tell that Batman's right in front of him. 

The Bat moves, pinning the magician to the wall, hands restrained. The darkness parts around them like a cloud of ink, leaving the normal dimness from the late (early?) hour and the broken lights behind. 

As well as the shadows. They writhe and flicker around the Bat, and his own shadow seems to swell and grow, casting a pallor of fear over everything. 

"H-how?" the magician gasps. "How are you- not- drowning?"

"I've made peace with my demons," Batman snarls, voice seeming to deepen and reverb, as if something else was snarling with him. He stares the terrified man in the eye, the Dark Knight in all his glory, the Bat of Gotham surrounded by darkness. 

"Have you made peace with yours?"

The shadows seem to converge on them and moments later, frightened people rushing out of the bank, speaking of shadows that moved. Later realizing that if was probably just a new trick of Batman, they wrote it off. 

But the magician that Batman left on the steps of the GCPD would never be the same. After doing his time, he found a job, and as soon as he could, retired and moved somewhere warm and sunny, where the only shadows were the shade of palm trees and there were no bats within a hundred miles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and tell me what you think! 
> 
> See ya!


	10. Batman and Video Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long story short, the Justice League is not good at FNaF and Rocksteady still made a game about Bruce Wayne being Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of Two! I have the other one at the go because I have nothing to do but write. I think that wish I made a couple chapters back came true just to bite me in the rear.
> 
> Enjoy and comment!

I was watching let's plays and I thought, why not? It's a little plausible.

This all starts with Barry Allen and Dick Grayson. Screw timelines, I don't care when the dates are.

So there are two events that lead to this. 

One is Barry Allen playing videogames during a League meeting. Batman is not impressed.

The Flash claims that it's good for developing reflexes, even though his reaction time is orders of magnitude faster than any normal human. 

The second thing is Dick Grayson playing Five Nights at Freddy's, and fucking _destroying_ that game in a single day. He gets Bruce to play it, and the result is the same, if not even better. What did you expect? It's Batman and Robin. Of course they're going to be excellent at a game that requires focus, time management, and resource management. 

Bruce sees an opportunity. A golden one at that. Using some tech magic, he converts the game into a virtual reality one. Sort of like FNaF VR, but with the first game. 

And Dick said this was a horror game, but this isn't so scary. Really? Spooky noises counts as horror? Man, the weaklings these days. 

So at the next League meeting, he presents his genius.

"Flash gave me this idea," he says. Everyone looks at Flash accusingly. "You can thank him for it."

The basis of why they're doing this is to improve reaction time, resource management, and level headedness in intense situations. Batman, of course, has upped the stakes a little. The enemies are more vicious, the batteries run out faster, and now you have an opportunity to fight your attackers off or try to reason with them. 

Batman also has made several backup pieces of headgear. Just in case. 

He leads them to a room that has the basics of what the controls will be. Once the virtual reality is set in, the console in front of where the player is standing will line up with the image and ant button pressed will interact with the world around it. 

In that way, I suppose it's really like augmented reality, in the way that you're still interacting with the real world. It's just that there's a "skin" over it. 

For the animatronics, Batman has created several Superman-proof robots. When I say Superman-proof, I mean that he can't rip them apart like toilet paper, but everyone can beat them. The doors will open and close with the corresponding button, and various different robots will appear at them periodically. It's random, as random as a computer can get.

Superman volunteers to go first. If anything goes horribly wrong, he'll be the most likely to survive it. He puts on the headset, takes the controllers, and puts in the comm that will allow Batman and the others to hear him.

The others file out of the room and Batman activates the VR and the comm. 

"Woah," they hear Superman's voice say. "Okay, that's mildly terrifying."

"I assume it's working?" asks Batman. 

"Am I supposed to see a decrepit old security room in a haunted-looking restaurant?"

"Guess."

"Then yeah."

"You want the background on this?" Batman asks. "It's not necessary."

"I'm a reporter. Of course I want all the information."

"Well, you're not here. You're the new night guard at a pizza place. This pizza place has animatronics roaming the halls to prevent their joints getting locked up."

"Oh, shit, like Chuck E. Cheese?" Green Lantern asks. "Oh, fuck that."

"However, these animatronics have been getting more and more aggressive to the staff," Batman says, ignoring Green Lantern. "If they see you, they'll think you're an exposed endoskeleton and shove you into one of the suits, killing you."

"Oh, that's fun," Superman says faintly. 

"Don't worry, they're not active yet," says Batman. "I'll tell you when they are. You do have several defenses against the animatronics. You have the security cameras, which will show you where each one is located. The button for those is labled. You can also shut the doors, for which the button is also labled. To scare them off and see if they're outside the door, you can turn on the hall lights. However, all these actions drain the batteries, which have a limited supply of power. Once you're out of power, your only option is to try to talk them out of attacking you or fight. However, trying to talk them out is difficult. You need to know why they're attacking you."

"How do I find that out?"

"There'll be clues sprinkled around," Batman says. "I asked Robin to do it, so we all have an even playing field."

"Okay. How do I win?"

"Your goal is to survive from midnight to six in the morning for five nights. If you do, you get your paycheck and walk away free. Each hour is ninety seconds, making each night nine minutes."

"Less than an hour," Superman says. "I can do this."

"Good luck. The game is active in three, two, one... now."

Batman pushed a button and multiple machines whirred to life. 

A few minutes passed. Around the halfway mark on the first level, Superman started panicking. 

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," he said quietly. "Oh no, they're moving, where are they."

"Man, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Green Lantern asks. 

"Shut up, I don't know where they are," Superman says. 

Fifteen seconds later, there's a shrill scream, a loud clang, and a zapping sound. 

Batman sighs. The all walk back into the room, where one robot is halfway embedded in the wall and the headset Superman had been wearing is on the floor with two smoking holes in it.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly.

"This is why I brought more," Batman says. "What went wrong?"

"It disappeared and I panicked," Superman says. "And then it popped up in front of me and I flailed around."

"Did you check the halls?"

"No."

"Did you close the doors?"

"No." 

"Environmental awareness," Batman said simply. "You have tools. Use them."

"I'm going to go next," Green Lantern says boldly. 

His run lasts a little longer. He gets into the second night. However, he runs out of power rather quickly.

The rest of them know this by the long stream of swear words that flow from the speaker. 

"The fuck do you mean, I'm out of power, what is this shit, fucking _Apple_? Screw that, I'm force-fielding this shit."

"That would be cheating, Lantern," says Batman. "Besides, it won't do much."

"The hell do you mean?"

"That would also be cheating."

Green Lantern found out not twenty seconds later, when a screech sounded out and a crunching noise make everyone wince. Everyone went back into the room to see another robot smushed into the approximate shape of a deformed pancake. 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Green Lantern muttered darkly, scowling. "Resource management and all that."

The other trials went much the same way. Only Wonder Woman made it to the end, by sheer force of fighting off every robot at once. Credit where credit's due, she did so without her sword or lasso.

The Flash just lost his head completely. Near the end, he just blurred around the room, yelping occasionally. When he exited, he had the look of someone who would not get much sleep that night. 

Aquaman shorted out the entire room because he flooded it. I mean, it's a feasible battle tactic, but seriously.

There are other instances. Many villains being technology-inclined, sometimes Batman is challenged to a virtual game. 

It's always fun to imagine Batman seated at a console with a straight poker face, just utterly wrecking the villain. He would definitely be the type of person to have beaten Matt in Wii Sports. 

God forbid he ever gets into E-Sports, because that would be the end of that. 

He's also surprisingly good at first-person shooter games. He knows how to aim, thank you, and it's nothing like a real gun, seriously, if you held it like that, you'd dislocate your shoulder. And where is the proper footing, what is this, _ballet_? 

He can also cheat like a bitch with most games. Like, not that he purposely tries to cheat by looking up cheat codes and button combinations, but he just sometimes glitches through walls or just happens across twenty-four boxes of health. And he's like, "Wow, isn't this lucky," and no one is sure whether or not he's actually cheating, but he totally is. 

You know the Arkham game series? They exist. With all the things about Bruce Wayne being Batman. The people who made the game have no clue that their little fun idea is actually fact, and they put this at the beginning of the game, like, "We have no idea who Batman is. This is our idea and in no way are we implicating that Bruce Wayne is Batman."

And below in really tiny lettering: (Please don't come after us Batman)

Bruce Wayne is fine with this. His multitude of children pressure him into playing it and film this event, and the resulting video contains not only the surprisingly good gameplay, but comments by Bruce on the story and other things.

* * *

"Why do you want me to play this?" Bruce Wayne asks blankly. Whoever is behind the camera (Stephanie) laughs.

"Because, it's really fun," Tim says. He's slightly out of the shot, setting up the game. 

"Yeah, you'll like it," Dick says. He's on the couch with a bucket of popcorn. 

"If you say so," Wayne says, shrugging. 

As the game loads, Wayne seems to realize something. 

"Oh, this is the game where I'm Batman," he says. "Yeah, I remember this. The creators actually called me and asked for my permission. I don't know why. They really should have asked Batman, but I can see how that would be a problem."

"Aw, come on!" Stephanie says. "I was looking forward to that!"

* * *

"Who did they get to voice the Joker?" Wayne asks. "The man did a pretty good job."

"Scratch that, who did they get to voice Batman?" Dick asks. "Your voice has never sounded so manly before, B."

"Why, thank you."

* * *

"If the security at Arkham was half of what it is here, I doubt there'd be so many escapes," Tim says, peering over his adoptive father's shoulder. 

"I don't know, all they have on Killer Croc is a shock collar," Dick says. "I feel like that's a bad idea waiting to happen. One power outage and-"

"Look at that," Wayne says as the elevator the avatar is in plunges into darkness. "How prophetic."

"Going right for the throat, I see," observes Tim. "Very aggressive."

"One thing I do agree with is that you can trust the Joker as far as you can pick up the Statue of Liberty," says Wayne. 

"I mean, I bet Superman could do it-" Stephanie says. 

"Superman's invincible," Dick says. 

"Not if the Joker has Kryptonite," argues Stephanie. 

"Where would the Joker even _get_ Kryptonite?"

"Point."

* * *

"Oh, no, Joker escaping, who could have seen that coming," Wayne says flatly. "Oh, no, Joker sending in henchmen to try to kill me, what will I do?"

"Beat them up," suggests Damian, who has now joined the group. 

"No, he'll just let them punch him," says Tim sarcastically. 

Damian cannot rise to the bait, as Wayne and Dick sandwich him between them.

* * *

"Cool, Oracle's here," says Tim. 

"Even cooler, she's Babs," Dick says, grinning. He turns and shouts "BABS! YOU'RE BRUCE'S SIDEKICK!"

A faint shout from somewhere in the house. "LIKE HELL!"

* * *

"A Predator fight is coming up next," says Tim. "You get to be all spooky and hang from the gargoyles that are inside, for some reason."

"I know it's Gotham, but that's crossing a line," Wayne says.

"Bruce, why do you look so dead inside?" Dick asks. 

"'He won't see me,' that's the _point_ ," Wayne says. "I have no idea."

* * *

"You, ma'am, may be the only sane person in Arkham," Wayne says. 

"What, you're not sane?" asks Tim. 

"I am wearing a literal _bat costume._ "

"Point."

* * *

"Gargoyles. Inside."

"Move on, Bruce."

* * *

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" asks Wayne as the first Titan enemy appears. 

"Not good," says Tim. 

"Sir, sir, the Square Cube Law would like to have a word," says Wayne. "And look at that."

"How do you know what the Square Cube Law is?" asks Dick. 

"I may have dropped out of college, but I'd like to remind everyone that I had a solid grasp of differential calculus when most were in Algebra," Wayne says. This is true.

* * *

"So are you telling me that I, Batman, the scourge of the underworld, do not have enough control over where I throw batarangs to get in a non-lethal hit on the Joker?" Wayne asks. "I can't cripple him or anything, I just stand there, looking stupid."

"Shh, it's a video game," says Stephanie. "Logic doesn't matter here."

"I feel like it should."

"Facts don't care about your feelings, Bruce," Tim says, looking at his phone. Stephanie makes a sound between a a cough and a wheeze.

* * *

The video goes viral in a few hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part should be going up soon. I just have to iron out a few wrinkles. 
> 
> See ya!


	11. Game Night!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Nocturne is made up of the best and brightest. 
> 
> It doesn't seem this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a part three. SORRY SORRY IT JUST GOT SO LONG
> 
> Enjoy over two thousand words of crack, Terry being a little shit, and Thomas swearing.

The Council of Nocturne once had to do this. Multidimensional tech can be a pain in the ass, and to fix a multidimensional problem, you have to have a multidimensional solution. 

For some reason, Batman requests to use the Watchtower's computer. In some ways, it's even better than the Bat computer. He plugs in a little flashdrive, opens a mysterious program, pulls on a headset, and asks, "Does this work?"

An unusual bat symbol shows up in the corner. This is followed by a couple more. 

"Loud and clear," a voice says. One, if they knew him, could identify it as Terry McGinnis, of the Beyond universe. More utterances of assent come forward. 

"So, what are we playing tonight?" the first voice asks. 

"We're not playing anything," Batman says. "We're after the individual who teamed up with other alternates of himself to escape into a game."

The Justice League is baffled. 

"What's the game, then?" another, this time familiar voice asks. Ah, yes. It's their interdimensional visitor, Thomas Wayne. 

"It's..." Batman peers at a side screen. He sighs. "Goddamnit. It's The Blackout Club."

"Oh, man, that's the one with the creepy-as-slag cult thing, right?"

"You're kidding me."

"Hey, at least it's multiplayer."

Superman is still confused, but decides that it's not his business. Aquaman never got the whole alternate world thing anyway and leaves as well. 

Barry and Hal want to see this play out. Diana is there to keep an eye on them. 

"And men? We have visitors on this end, so keep this PG, please," Batman says. He knew they were there. 

"B cried when Old Yeller died!" shouts Terry. 

"Terry cried when he watched Titanic!" another voice yells. They sound like a young Bruce. 

Okay, just to make things clear, young Bruce is Bruce. Adult Bruce is B. 

"Oh, Lord," Thomas says. 

"Just open the game and join," Batman growls. "I need to make sure the Watchtower's secure." 

Batman takes off his cowl and sighs. He turns to Hal, Barry, and Diana.

"Please don't touch anything," he says. "The Watchtower will be fully locked down for the time being. If you want to leave, leave now. The notification should be sending out now."

"Like hell I'm leaving," Superman says. "What can I do to help?"

"Just make sure B doesn't pass out!" Terry yells. "He's stupid like that!"

"You are _very_ unhelpful!" younger Bruce says. "Now Alfred's gonna be on my ass."

They can faintly hear a "Language, Master Bruce!"

"The only one who can not care about health is _me_ ," Thomas says. 

"Old man, you better not be playing drunk," Terry says. 

"At this point, I think alcohol is the only way someone could get through this," Bruce says.

B returns to the console. "Like hell, you're underage."

"Not the fact that it's only been five minutes," Terry says. "Nice." 

B groans. "Let's just catch the bastard," he says. "Everyone in?"

The game starts, and to absolutely everyone's surprise, Bruce is the one that has the most trouble with the game controls. 

"Jesus Christ, how do I move the thing?"

"Oh my God, just press right!" Terry says. 

"It's going up, why is it going up?"

"Look at the buttons you're pressing," Thomas says. 

"Oh."

"Hey, why are we all girls?" Terry asks. 

"I think it's just you who's a girl here," B says. 

"This is bullshit, I'm a girl too," Bruce says. 

"Can we just play the damn game?" asks Thomas. 

"No, we need to discuss this-"

"No, we do not," B says firmly. "Move on."

A few minutes later, there's another spat. 

"So the whole premise is that freaky shit's going on in the town at night and only the kids know about it?" Thomas asks. "Dear God, just run away during the day!"

"What are these people, the Scooby Doo Gang?" asks Terry. 

"No, guys, we're the Blackout Club, can't you read the big-ass cardboard sign?" Bruce says. 

"Why the hell do we have a crossbow?" B muses. 

"Forget that, there's a flash-bang!" Thomas says.

"Back on topic guys, let's equip some crap and kick ass," Terry says. 

The first mission seems to delight them. 

"A break-in? This is kiddy stuff," Bruce says. 

"Let's just get this over with," Thomas says. They all start off and a few seconds later, someone starts humming the _Mission: Impossible_ theme. And no one will admit it. 

"Holy mother of Jesus!" Terry yells. "Sleeper Sleeper Sleeper!" 

"Get out of there!" B says. 

"Taser to the rescue!" shouts Bruce. He leaps over the fence and tases himself and the Sleeper. 

"This is a hot mess," Thomas says. 

They gather most of the evidence without trouble. And then, it happens. 

"WHO FUCKING SET OFF THE FIRECRACKERS?" Thomas roars as they run across the rooftops. Sleepers are crawling out onto the streets. 

"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT WOULD HAPPEN!" shouts B as he jumps down, taking damage. "Fucking _roll_ into the fall, you useless teenager! What are your limbs made of, _noodles_?" 

"GUYS, THE SHAPE IS HERE!" Terry yells. "He's after B! And I see the last piece of evidence!" 

"You guys run, I'll lead him around!" B says, falling into strategy mode. "It has a hell of a time getting on roofs."

"Got it!" Terry says. 

"Get to the exit point, I'll meet you there," B says. 

"IF YOU DIE, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Thomas yells. 

"Like I would let some yellow invisible bastard get me," B says. He jumps on top of a car and across the street. He makes it to the cave just in time, and a sigh of relief is heard from everyone. 

"How many of these do we have to do?" asks Bruce. He sounds shaky. 

"Like, five," Terry says. "And there are multiple missions for each level. It won't always be this easy." 

"What do you mean, _easy_?" demands Thomas. 

"This was level one," groans B. "This was the easy one."

Thomas groans too. "I need a drink," he mutters. "Fuck it, I need _ten_ drinks." 

"Red Bull only," says Terry. "Shit's like licking a _battery_." 

"No, Gatorade," B says. "Keeps your fingers from cramping and won't make you high on caffeine." 

B is a hypocrite, as he says this while chugging the mug of ultra-strong coffee that Superman had given him. 

"I can practically smell the coffee, asshole," Bruce accuses. 

"I'm an adult."

"So am I!" 

"Mmm, the voice crack says otherwise," Terry says. 

"Screw you, you can't even drink!"

"It's not my fault they upped the drinking age to _twenty seven_ -" 

"No, it's probably your Bruce's fault," B says. 

"No, it's not!" A faint voice is heard. 

"Oh, let's click on Remember," says Bruce. "Three, two, one, now."

The voice echoing from the speakers is clearly supposed to be scary, but the delay from clicking at different times just makes it sound thoroughly drunk. 

"Satan's sloshed," snickers Terry. 

"Hey, it's hard ruling Hell," says Bruce. "Cut the Lord of all evil some slack."

"Let's just go already," Thomas sighs. 

"No, wait, we're out of popcorn!" calls Green Lantern. 

"Got it!" Barry zooms back into place. "Carry on!" 

Stunned silence. 

"You do realize that this is life and death, right?" Thomas asks. 

"And that the reason we're being so caviler is because if we're going to die, we might as well go to the Devil with a smile?" says Bruce.

"Guys, we're playing for keeps, here," Terry says. 

"Those people aren't just game sprites, they're brainwashed victims. If we kill them in the game, they're brain-dead permanently," B says. "If we die in the game, if we lose even once, then we're all dead." 

"This isn't a game, as much as it looks like one," says Bruce. "This is a fight." 

"Eat your popcorn if you want," B says, turning back to the screens. "But don't treat this as entertainment."

"What's next?" Thomas says grimly. 

"Missing kid. He's in the Maze," Terry reports. "Five bucks, he's already dead."

* * *

 _"You owe me five bucks,"_ shrieks Terry, bounding away from the Shape and the dead body. " _YOU OWE ME FIVE BUCKS!"_

Note: this boy would have already been dead in the game. Most of the people are real, but some of them aren't. Like the kid you find in the Maze.

The loud report of a shotgun came over the speakers. 

"Was that in the game?" Bruce asks.

"You bet your ass it was," Thomas says, his character running over, a shotgun in the sprite's hands. "Amazing what a little modding will do." 

The Shape flies into a wall, leaving bloody smears behind. 

"You came after us, now have the balls to finish what you started!" Thomas says, reloading the gun. 

"No!" shouts Bruce and B. 

"We have no idea who that is," says B. "I thought we agreed. No lethal force."

"You can't kill this thing in the normal game," Thomas says. "Why would a mod change that?"

"This isn't a normal game in the first place!" says Terry. 

"Wait, shit, guys, we need to check the settings when we get out of this!" says Bruce. "There's a thing that lets the devs look in on what you're doing! They can see who you're talking to!"

"Oh, they're gonna be so confused by those layered IP addresses," says Terry. "And the one that isn't even on Earth." 

"Fuck that, security might be breached!" Thomas says, dropping multiple flash-bangs and bolting away. 

"Unless they're Cyborg, they're not getting through this line," B says. His face goes pale. "But you don't have secure lines. And there are four teams of devs trying to crack this."

"Oh, yeah, they can definitely see us," says Terry. "The name, I guess you can call it, of the Bat computer is Knight. Knight with a k. I just got a message saying 'Little knight, far from his castle,' and I get that I'm going in the opposite direction, but _seriously_? This is strategy, bitches."

"I just got 'The sinner curses our names,'" says B. 

"Hell yeah, I'm cursing your names, you have a slagging radioactive _Kool-Aid Man_ after me!" Terry says. "Eat foam!"

"Did you just coat the Shape in foam?" B asks. 

"Yep. And now we can see it. Take the blessing."

"Okay, okay, these are the devs, but they're in character as someone," says Bruce. 

"Right, these gods or whatever," says Thomas. "Thee-I-Dare, Speak-As-One, Last-Laugh, In-Her-Teeth, Dance-For-Us, Die-For-You, Seed-The-Grudge, Cut-The-Measure, and Hunt-The-Strong."

"Lovely bunch," says B. "Speak-As-One and Hunt-The-Strong are really the two we have to worry about. Speak-As-One is the one responsible for all this and players have dubbed Hunt-The-Strong as the murder-god. In-Her-Teeth and Dance-For-Us I know are female, but Dance-For-Us was killed by HTS a couple years back. I read the wiki page."

"Alright, so who exactly are we speaking with?" Terry says. 

The four characters reach just outside the cave. Hal, Barry, and Diana note that the four have been talking and running for the past three minutes, seamlessly sowing chaos and avoiding enemies. 

"Speak-As-One, if I had to guess," says B. "Only SAO and TID send messages through the eye things. And TID doesn't talk in the plural."

"Oh, yay, the mind-controlling one," mutters Thomas. 

"Who are we speaking to?" Bruce says into the microphone. A few seconds later: 

"HOLY _SHIT_ I GOT AN ANSWER!"

"What is it?"

"Read it!"

"I can't believe that worked."

"It says 'We are the conscious, the light, the order. We will prevail. We will send it after you.'"

"This sounds like something I would hate," says Terry. 

"Bitches, you can't send _shit_ after us!" says Bruce. "We're three steps away from victory!"

"Watch your mouth. It's talking to me now," says B. "'And yet you do not take them. Why? Do you wish to join our cause?' We want answers. And no, we don't want to be brainwashed. We serve Thee-I-Dare. Last I checked, order wasn't worth free will."

"Oh, shit, it's on me," Thomas mutters. "Uh, 'You dare speak its name? In our presence? Such scorn will not be tolerated.'"

"Okay, listen devs, I'm actually not playing around here. There is someone, a foreign entity, in your game. Not a virus, an actual _person_. All those Sleepers and Lucids there? Actual _people_. Multidimensional tech is at play here, and the longer we wait around trying to get you to go away, the farther away this shit stain gets. We are working in junction with the Justice League, and so help me _God_ , we can and will sic _Superman_ on your asses. Also, I don't know if you've realized this, but B here is _Batman_. Common nickname for him. Growly voice. Fucked-up IP address because he's in _space_. Don't know why you didn't catch that before. _SO IF YOU WOULD_ \- Oh look, a message," Terry says. "'We doubt-' Oh, fuck me with a rusty spoon- B, a little help?"

"Superman, put this on and talk into the microphone," B says, holding out a headset. 

"What do I say?" he asks. 

"Sing the national anthem," Bruce says, amused. 

"If you start singing, I'mma start shooting," Thomas says. 

"Just confirm that we're actually doing something important here," B sighs, pinching his nose. 

"Yeah, this is real," Superman says. "Really sorry, but it is. People could die here." He hands the set back to B. "That good enough?"

"We'll see," B says. 

"Uh, guys?" calls Bruce. "Whoever we're talking to isn't the devs. Like, at all."

"What did they send you?" asks Thomas. 

"'You think that we are the creators. We are your enemies. We are many and one.'"

"Oh, yeah, definitely not the devs."

"Hello, children," a female voice says. 

"Hello In-Her-Teeth," says B. 

"I'd like to clarify that two of us are definitely older than you and I have a college degree," says Terry. "But you can call Bruce a child."

"If you call me a child, I don't care _what_ ancient Eldritch god you are-"

"Be quiet!" Thomas hisses. 

"The elder is wise."

"More like a _wiseass_ -"

"What did I _just_ say-"

"I apologize, In-Her-Teeth," B says. 

"No need, Bat. I am much more forgiving than my siblings."

"Your siblings?" Thomas asks. "The other gods?"

"You could call us that."

"Do you know Bells?" Bruce asks. "One of your siblings was speaking to her before she disappeared. The one that encourages rebellion."

"Yes, I know of her. I have no knowledge of where she is. My sibling is... fractured, I'm sure you know."

"Something they said to her before she disappeared made no sense," Bruce says. "A quote. 'Mother. Father. You.' You, of course, means Bells. So why not say 'Your mother. Your father. You.' Why imply a connection? Why imply a relation?"

"Does this have anything to do with why we're actually here?" B interrupts.

"No-"

"You're on an interesting idea," says In-Her-Teeth. "Keep digging, Detective."

"I _knew_ it!"

"Now that I've answered a question, how about you answer one for me, Elder?"

Thomas is on guard. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you fear death?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Terry. And Thomas. They're so much fun to write. 
> 
> See ya!


	12. Did You Actually Think That This Would End Well?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when the game gets real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over four thousand words. I hope that makes up for the long wait. 
> 
> I HAVE A COMMENT AJDJDNSJ THANK YOU I SHOULD REALLY REPLY TO IT

The other three start laughing. 

"Thomas? Fearing death?" says Terry. He sounds like he's crying. He dissolves into laughter. 

"Lady, Death fears him!" says Bruce. 

Now, B knows that this isn't exactly true. Death wouldn't be afraid of Thomas. But still. He knows that the idea of Thomas being scared of the idea of death is a little out there. 

After all, they both had a relationship with death since That Night. 

Bruce knows death, knows it like the back of his hand. It's an ugly thing, it's blood in an alley, it's the sound of a gunshot, of pearls falling, it's the weight of a little boy playing pretend in his arms, it's bloody masks and torn capes. It's red smiles and green hair and awful, mad cackling. 

And that's true for Thomas. It's a boy inspired by a hero, cut down before he could become one. It's bloody razors and macabre grins. It's love, twisted and warped until it's something monstrous instead of beautiful. 

And for both of them, it takes and it takes and it takes. 

I'm going back on what I said a few chapters back. Thomas isn't looking for death unto his universe. He's looking for non-existence. To be wiped from reality all at once. It's not a mass slaughter, just a backspace on a typo. 

In death, there is remembrance. In death, there is existence. I guess it's true, what they say. Those who are gone never really leave us. 

"No," Thomas says quietly, after a time. He's thought this through. "No. I loved her. Once."

"Really?" In-Her-Teeth seems intrigued. "Why is that?"

"I'd really rather not talk about it."

"If death were to come for you now, would you accept it? Or would you struggle, kicking and screaming into the abyss, fighting uselessly?"

"If I said I would accept it, I would be lying," Thomas says. "I've fought many useless battles. I've stared into the abyss many times. But I've won those battles. And I've never blinked.

"The question isn't if I fear death. The question is, do I care about life. And I can't do what I do, even with my methods, if I say that I don't. I got shit to do here. And I'm not going to cancel just because the Grim Reaper tells me so."

"An interesting response," says In-Her-Teeth. "Never before has any mortal ever been so up-front about death. You do not accept it, but you also do not deny it. You four are by far the strangest players I have met."

"In-Her-Teeth, you're all about accepting the end, right?" Terry asks. 

"But of course."

"Well, there's someone in this game who's not supposed to be here," Bruce says. "He's trying to outrun death by literally jumping into this world and living virtually. Have you or any of your siblings noticed flaws in this world, tears in the fabric where an outsider might be able to slip in?"

"Let me look," says In-Her-Teeth. "If what you say is true, then he might be able to override everything here."

"Check the AI for the messages," suggests B. "We were communicating with SAO at first, but then he hijacked the messages."

"Yes, I see him, or rather, Last Laugh has," she says. "Last Laugh usually doesn't interact with players who are located where your IP addresses are, for obvious reasons, but this player was different."

"How so?" Thomas asks. 

"His avatar is an adult, tall, pudgy, ratty blonde hair, and a bad complexion," says In-Her-Teeth. "Last Laugh has been slowing him down, trying to figure it out. Enemies don't interact with him but he's not listed as a Stalker."

"That's our man!" Terry says. "Where is he?" 

"Deep in the Maze, further than you can reach," she says. "You'll have to play more to reach him."

A squeal of feedback hits everyone's ears. 

"He's ripping apart the game!" In-Her-Teeth says, sounding concerned for the first time. "He's isolating strings of code and hijacking the AIs!" 

"Do what you can to keep the servers running and up," B says, hands flying over the keyboard. "Pretend it's an update or something, just make sure that no one knows what's going on."

"What can you do?" asks In-Her-Teeth. 

"Besides having the best interdimensional tech known to man?" Bruce says. "When we're not dicking around, we're actually pretty good at co-op horror games."

"It's about time the bastard finds that he messed with the wrong people," Thomas says. 

"I wish you luck," In-Her-Teeth says. "With any of it, I'll see you later." 

There's silence all around. 

"So what the hell was that?" asks Hal Jordan. 

"One of the devs, in character as one of the gods in the game, just told us where our target is," says B. 

"It's hunting time, boys," says Thomas, reloading his shotgun. 

The four rip through the rest of the game, systematically tearing through enemies, finding evidence, exploring maps, and leading the Shape on a wild goose chase. They're untouchable. Defiant. Fearless. 

They unlock area after area, beating level after level, with barely a word said between them. They've been playing for hours, occasionally taking five-minute breaks to eat and drink. Sleep enough when they're dead is what seems to be the motto now. The others who are present are fascinated by this grim playing. Until something strange begins to happen. 

"Guys?" Terry asks quietly. They've long passed the predicted five levels. This is what, the fifteenth time they've gone out? They're almost done with the mission. Terry is simply on the other side of the map. All is quiet. The Shape is not there. 

"Yes?" replies B. "What's going on?"

"I'm by the school," Terry says. "And the tablet's missing." 

"None of us took it," says Bruce. "You think the guy we're after did?" 

"Seems plausible," says Thomas. 

"That's not all," Terry says. "The sun's rising." 

"Oh, son of a bitch," mutters Thomas. 

Before Hal Jordan opens his mouth, B wheels the moving chair he’s sitting in around, black cape swishing on the floor. Because he’s still wearing the Batsuit, minus the cowl, with a big-ass set of fucking  _ gaming headphones _ or some shit because he knows they come in handy. He looks both badass and completely ridiculous at the same time. 

“The sun doesn’t rise in this game,” he tells them. “No matter how long one takes, you don’t ever see the sun come up in this game.”

“So for the sun to be coming up now is really fucking concerning,” Thomas says.

“Wait, you guys all know the Scooby-Doo thing, Cyber Chase, right?” asks Bruce. “What if we’re not dealing with that kind of thing anymore? What if this dipshit is melding reality and this game?”

“That sounds ridiculous, but we’ve seen weirder,” says Terry. “How sad is that?”

“This game would be easier to slip into this reality,” says Thomas. “Redacre doesn’t actually exist, but Virginia sure as hell does. There is actually a dead zone, about 13,000 square acres large in that area as well.”

“We don’t even know what universe this is in!” says Bruce. “Much less where that one little town is located.”

“Well, we can fix both of those problems quite easily,” says B. “Terry and I have access to a Watchtower’s scanners. We can check for any unusual seismic activity or disturbances in that area.”

“That’s only two universes out of four,” says Bruce.

“Considering this man has more pride than Lucifer and the one who started this came from my universe, I think it’s a pretty good bet to say that he’s going to want to use his own universe to take down everyone who would stand in his way,” B says. 

“Nothing on mine,” says Terry. 

“Well, it seems that the Devil doesn’t have all the luck,” B says, a flash of triumph in his eyes. One screen shows red slashes across a map of Virginia. “Because I’m picking up loads of activity over Virginia as we speak.” 

"If this guy is mashing up this game and reality, what are the devs looking at?" asks Thomas. 

His question is answered mere moments later, when the screens start glitching out and a shrill scream of static starts coming over the speakers. A few seconds of chaotic pixels later, and a simple black screen with the words CONNECTION TO THE SERVER LOST in white are all that is left of the screen with the game. 

"What the hell was that?" Terry says. " _ What the hell was that?" _

"Probably what the devs are seeing right now," says B. 

"This just got worse," says Barry. He holds up his phone, which shows the visage of the man who the four have been chasing. 

"Hello, peoples of the multiverse," he announces. What follows is the standard vague threats and ego-stroking. They use this time wisely. 

"This is across all of our worlds," says Bruce. "We're getting it too."

"This is live," reports Terry. And the signals coming from your world, B." 

"Position pinpointed," says B. "Right on the edge of the NRQZ." 

"Don't bother sending your  _ heroes _ after me," he sneers, looking far too pompous for someone who probably still lives in his mother's basement. "They don't have the faintest clue of what  _ universe _ I am in, much less where I actually am."

"I have no words to describe you," mutters Bruce. "None." 

"This world will be  _ mine _ !" proclaims the man, ignoring his voice crack on the last word. "And for those who would stop me?" He leans closer to the camera. "I dare you to try  _ now _ ." 

The video cuts off. 

"Well, I mean he invited us," says Thomas. "It would be rude to turn down." 

B sighs. "I suppose we have to," he says, not sounding particularly regretful. He puts the cowl back on. "Use the tech the Council distributed to get to my universe. Bring standard gear. Non-lethal. Forget any cell phones or signal-dependent tech, because it won't work there. Body armor is a must. Don't wear a full out Suit, but domino masks are approved. We're going to need to gain the trust of children, here, not give them nightmares." 

"Yippee, real-life video games," mutters Thomas. 

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Bruce says. 

"Where are we meeting?" Terry asks. 

"The Cave," Batman says. He stands up. "Go there when night starts to fall. We're headed to Virginia."

* * *

Time skips are fun. They're like loading screens. Side note: I'm switching tenses because writing in present tense is hard. 

Side note two: Young Bruce is still Bruce while older Bruce is Batman, even without the cowl. And if you don't like excessive descriptions of character clothing, then a section ahead you won't like very much, but I think it's necessary for building the scene.

And last but not least, Thomas is Flashpoint, Terry is Beyond, B is Batman, and Bruce is Knight.

* * *

"Those better be rubber bullets," said Terry, glancing at the black holster on Thomas's side. "These people are just under mind-control, not evil."

"Of course they are," Thomas replied. "His universe, his rules." 

"How did this guy even get this to work?" Bruce asked, stepping out of his portal. "Some Matrix shit or something?" 

"It doesn't matter, only that he did it," said Batman. "I apologize. I got delayed trying to explain the concept of other worlds to the reporters that Superman organized."

"Let me guess: dumb as bricks?" asked Bruce. 

"Just about," he confirmed. "They wanted to know why Superman wasn't doing anything and apparently 'Superman is not good with things like this' is not an acceptable answer."

"Who's looking after Gotham tonight?" Terry asked. 

"Red Hood, Batgirl, Robin, Red Robin, and Batwoman," said Batman. "They can hold the city for tonight. Nightwing is dealing with Bludhaven and Black Bat is in Hong Kong. Oracle is up, as per usual. She won't be able to communicate with us once we enter the NRQZ."

"How will we talk?" asked Thomas as the four made their way to the jet. Night was falling quickly, and they needed to get there as fast as possible. 

In response, Batman tossed them all small headsets. 

"The same way that they do," said Batman. "Old-fashioned radio. Improved to be more compact and with less static."

They all climb into the jet. Fun fact. I learned that the Batwing has a canon speed of forty-four hundred miles an hour. Let's say they're going a little slower than normal and go at only four thousand miles per hour. As the crowd flies, the distance from around where Gotham is in real life to an actual town in the NRQZ is around three hundred miles. 

It would take them less than five minutes to get there. Holy shit. That's impressive. Even accounting for the fact that Harrisonburg is not actually where they're going, the fact that it's around there and the Batwing can go faster than the speed I used means that the less than five minutes still holds. 

So they get there. The Batwing is hidden away. They have tranqs, grappling hooks, ziptips. Everything that the Blackout Club could need. 

"Where are they?" whispered Bruce, black domino mask in place, white lenses hiding his eyes. He was wearing a hoodie over a Kevlar vest, and the kind of pants that could stop a chainsaw, but less bulky. Having the ability to alter existing gear is useful. 

(Those are mainly used in construction and lumber. They actually exist. There are literal videos of people putting chainsaws to them while they are wearing the clothing. It's pretty cool.)

"They're coming out now," Terry whispered in reply. Terry is also wearing a hoodie, borrowed from Dick Grayson of B's world. In the future, they don't have normal-looking hoodies anymore. He's not wearing a mask. He doesn't need one, as he isn't even born in this world. Also, the masks don't really help with the trust thing, so hopefully Terry can help them with that. Below, he's just wearing the bottom half of his Batsuit, so it just kinda looks like he's wearing tight black pants, which isn't exactly regular, but it's not abnormal. He also has the gloves to his Batsuit, which, with a little tinkering, are able to be electrified and shock anyone he grabs. 

He points to a line of figures crouching by the trees. There are four of them, carrying an assortment of crossbows, grappling hooks, and stun guns. 

"The game's starting," muttered Batman. Even without the cowl, he's Batman. The Bruce Wayne face isn't recognizable, even with most of it showing. The black domino mask with the white lenses hides the crystal blue eyes, but other than that, his face is clear. It probably feels really weird, having most of his face exposed. But even with just his eyes hidden, you can't tell who the man is, other than Batman on a casual Friday. 

I like to think that part of the reason why Bruce Wayne's chin is never supplied as a possible Batman's is because of how different a smile can make it look. Really, how many Gothamites have that chiseled jawline? But Bruce Wayne is always smiling. Big, small, whatever, the man is always smiling or laughing. Batman doesn't. Batman is snarling, growling, frowning, serious. 

It's also why Batman likes Halloween. Just change the way you walk, don't look so menacing, and suddenly, you're just a guy in a pretty damn good costume. 

Goddamnit, I'm off track. 

Just to get Thomas out of the way, he's still wearing a mask. An older Thomas Wayne might not be as recognizable as a young Bruce Wayne, but some Lucids might be a little confused. His gun is hidden well enough that the kids won't see it if they don't know what they're looking for. He's wearing black body armor and isn't trying to hide that fact. 

"We need to get to them before they start," Thomas said. "We can't have then thinking that we're stalking them or enemies or something."

"Beyond, Knight," Batman said. "Go get in contact with them. Get them back over here. They need to know what's happening."

"On it," Terry said. He made his way silently over to the four figures, Bruce right behind him. Batman sees Terry toss a small pebble at the group, getting their attention as quietly as possible. 

What Batman can't hear is the conversation, but I've put it here for your enjoyment. 

"Who are you?" a girl hissed. She leveled her crossbow at Terry, who put his hands up in a gesture of peace. 

"You can call me Beyond," he whispered. "The guy behind me is Knight. We're here to help." 

"No way," said one boy quietly. "You sound older than a teenager. You should be working against us."

"Well, we're not," Bruce muttered. "We have two more back over there. We all have tranqs, zip ties for the Sleepers, bandages, and grappling hooks. Depending on what your stun guns run on, we also probably have batteries."

"What are their names?" asked the second girl. 

"Well, one's an older guy. We call him Flashpoint," said Terry. "As for the second, I hope you know who Batman is." 

The second boy seemed to choke. "Batman? Batman is here? He's real?" 

"I'm assuming you're a little behind on the times," said Bruce. "He's here. He's real. He's a member of the Justice League. He's not wearing the Batsuit, but there's no mistaking that grim face." 

"Follow us," said Terry.

The six creep back across to where Batman and Thomas are waiting. 

"Are they here?" Batman asked. 

"Holy shit, he  _ is _ real," came an awed whisper from the back. 

"Guess," said Thomas.

"Listen up," said Bruce. "Batman has a few things to tell you and he's only gonna say them once. I know this is cool, but this is also life and death." 

"Your town is being controlled by something. Something that calls itself a god. I know what it is called, but I'm sure you know that to say its name gives power to it."

The four teens nodded. 

"We're trying to find out what it is," said the first girl. "Something is waking us up but not the adults." 

"It's more like the adults have fallen under its control, but you haven't," said Batman. "It's why we're fine here. There's someone here who is in essence, controlling these events. We're going after him. He's located somewhere in the tunnel system underground."

"How do you know that?" asked the second boy.

"A long story, and we're on a time limit," said Batman. "My point is, we know how to help you. You just need to let us." 

"Deal," said the first girl. She seemed to be the leader. "My name is Sarah. Her name is Anna." She pointed to the first boy. "His name is Jack, and the other one is called Andrew." 

"Beyond should have already introduced us," said Thomas. 

"You're Flashpoint, right?" asked Sarah. 

"Yes." 

"Then yeah." 

"What's with the masks?" Andrew asked. 

"Extremely long story short, some of us are from different universes and need them to prevent things from getting wacky," said Terry. "Don't ask." 

"What are you doing now?" asked Bruce. 

"Putting up signs," said Jack. "Pretty easy to get, but they make a ton of noise. Why?" 

"Who we're after is in the Maze," said Batman. "We need you to put off that and help us find them." 

"Yeah, we can do that," Anna said. 

"Oh, and take a belt and put it on Pancho Villa style," said Bruce. "We stocked them full of everything. Bandages, darts, batteries, stun guns, flash-bangs, you name it." 

"Nice!" said Jack. 

They took the belts and looped them over their shoulders. The eight people, all looking like post-apocalyptic burglars, snuck through the town. A Sleeper wandered close to them at one point and Andrew pointed his crossbow at the stumbling man. 

"No," whispered Terry. "Batman's gonna show you kiddos how to do a sleeper hold." 

"It's not the air," mutters Thomas. "It's the blood flow." 

Sure enough, less than a minute later, a zip tied Sleeper is hidden in under a bush. 

"Were you just pinning them and then running away?" Thomas asked as they continued. 

"They stayed like that for a while," said Sarah defensively. 

"Enough," said Batman. He opened a door that led underground. "We have an entry." 

They slipped down into the tunnel, silent as shadows. 

The four Bats could see how desperately the kids needed training. They had the basics down, but they were still making far too much noise. 

"Watch how I move," Bruce whispered. "Toe to heel, weight on back leg. Use the outer edges of your feet if possible." 

They progressively got quieter as they moved, creeping unnoticed through the tunnels.

Note: Batman is tracking where the man is. After mushing together a game and reality, he's going to be giving off a unique energy signature.

"He should be just ahead," Thomas whispered. 

But just ahead was a blocked off area. 

"We have to go back," said Terry, disappointed. 

"All right, looks like we are putting those signs up," said Bruce. "Let's get out of here." 

They had just reached the surface when Jack noticed something. 

"The Sleepers are all above ground," he whispered. "They're all hunting for us. How?" 

"The man who we're after," said Thomas grimly. "He's controlling them." 

"No, this happened right before In-Her-Teeth came a-knocking," said Terry. 

"Get back to where we were," Batman said to the teens. "We're going to deal with this." 

And who was going to be the schmuck who disobeyed Batman's direct orders? Not them. They ran back to the hidden Batwing. 

"Who is here?" Batman growled. He pulled out a Batarang and readied to throw it. Thomas pulled out his gun, while Terry readied his gloves and Bruce slipped on a pair of brass knuckles. 

Hey, not everyone needs to have tech. Batman is renowned for his hand-to-hand combat skills. 

The Sleepers who are on the street full-on sprint at them, and the four are on a rooftop in a blink of an eye. 

"I'll ask one more time," Batman snarled, louder this time. "Who is here?"

Terry yelped in fear and the other three turned around to see him being pulled down by a swarm of pajama-clad adults. The other three, without a thought, rushed the horde and pulled Terry back from the edge and knocked the Sleepers down, not caring that to do so would be to give away their position. 

Loyalty runs deep when you're a Bat. No one is left behind. 

A sudden raspy, gravelly voice sounded out in the sky around them. 

"You asked, I tested, you passed," said a male voice.

"Oh, I know this bastard," growled Terry. 

"Die-For-You, what do you want?" Batman snarled. This isn't any dev. See, when the guy mashed up the game and reality, everything got mixed in as well. So now, these gods are real too. Which isn't the best. 

"Sacrifice," it hummed. "Which you gave me in spades. Knights fighting an endless battle. Fathers avenging sons, sons avenging fathers. How… quaint." 

"Leave," Batman growled.

"You may know my name mortal, but that hardly gives you the right-"

"You are one of many," the Bat interrupted. "Your siblings squabble over avatars, speak to them in their dreams, try to consume their power. You look for devotion, for sacrifice, in yours. Would they give their lives? Would they save themselves? You are all fighting against the eldest. Perhaps it is a parent? SAO, is what the shortened is. You rebel with the others, yet you don't work together."

"How do you know this?" Die-For-You asked. 

"You claim to be a god. News flash: you aren't," Terry said. "You're a puppet, controlled by one we want to stop. If you help us, we'll never return again."

"You make an interesting idea," it said. "Let me converse with my siblings."

They agree. The eight people are backed by every single one of the gods, save for Speak-As-One. As it turns out, four Bats are enough to take down an entire town of brainwashed victims. They drop back down into the tunnels, taking out everyone they see. They free three more people, who follow along behind them. 

Mysterious technology is smashed. Wires are cut. Cameras are broken. The Sleepers and Lucids flock to their group, only to be cut down. God be damned, Speak-As-One doesn't seem to have a basic idea of strategy. 

They make it back to the blocked off area. This time, they simply rip it off the rails. All of them armed, the steam out into the new area, taking down enemies with ease. It makes Batman feel a little guilty. Children are not soldiers, but here they are, fighting like they were born to fight. 

There's a throne. Carved of rock, ostentatious, ridiculous. On top of it lounges the guy that they were after. Well, really, now he's watching with fear as mere children rip through his defenses with feral cries. Virtual or not, this is their town, and they are as protective of it as the Bat is Gotham. 

They stand behind Batman, the Dark Knight, who is just as intimidating without the Batsuit as he is in his full regalia. Moonlight streams down onto him, giving him an air of something more than human, come to avenge, to destroy. 

"Alan Fontell," he announces, voice ringing in the massive space. The gods, or whatever they are, snarl with him, making his voice layered and dark and something that sounds like it's from Hell. "By the order of the United Nations, the Justice League, and the Council of Nocturne, you are to surrender and face trial for your crimes." 

Poor Alan. The Bat beat him at his own game. Really, what did he expect? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this ends abruptly, but like... I had to end it. It was getting so long.


	13. Fun & Exciting Things That May Or May Not Happen!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a headcanon. Sorry guys. But it would be great if you could read it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry.

So, as you may have noticed, the world's kinda losing its shit. April 2020 is a joke. I swear to God, it was literally snowing where I am two week ago. And to be clear, where I am is not somewhere where _snow_ falls in _April._ but anyway. 

There has been a distinct lack of updates! And I want to fix that. I really, really do. But, as schools are no longer open and online school is a bitch, I get quite tired of staring at screens. Everyone does. Especially when you've been doing it from eight to four at the very latest, which, may I remind people, is the amount of time the average adult spends working, but shifted back an hour and without any lunch breaks. 

Am I giving up? Hell no, I'm having way too much fun. And one very nice reader left three amazing comments that almost made me cry, so thank you Sophia_the_Scribe, you're a gem. But like I said above, the world's going to shit, and because I don't live in Greenland (who is doing really well, everything considered), I have no real clue as to when the next actual chapter will be posted. 

But now for the exciting things. 

One: I have two ideas for actual fan fiction. GASP! I know. Both feature Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne, though they won't be exclusively romance, because I am not the best with that. One is a trope that I have seen in the fandom before, though not really with the BatCat (Batcat? Bat-Cat? Catbat? You know what I mean) pairing. It'll be... interesting. I'm not sure if I'll actually post it on here, depending on how it turns out, but here's hoping that it won't crash and burn. 

The other idea I had is something I've already started to work on. It's by no means an original idea that I came up with all by myself, as other writers on this very website have written fics revolving around the core ideas and themes of the story I had in my mind, but not to the degree that I want to look at it. They've either been one-offs or smaller details in a larger story. However, I'm going to take the general idea of those details and turn them into a full-fledged story. 

The second one will be a lot darker than the first idea that I described. I'm just saying. It will be the kind that has trigger warnings attached to it. The working title is Though the Truth May Vary, from the song Little Talks, by Of Monsters And Men. Bruce Wayne isn't Batman and Selina Kyle isn't Catwoman, at least, not yet. Other characters will include Alfred Pennyworth, Gotham style, with badass-ness to spare, James Gordon, as a member of the GCPD and is also a member of the _People Too Good to be in Gotham_ Club, Kate Kane, as late-entrance Best Cousin, Lucius Fox, as _The Only Decent Person in Wayne Enterprises at the Moment_ , the Court of Owls, as Side Jackasses, and the Council of Nocturne, as the Multidimensional Bat Protection Force that can't do much at the moment because they don't want the timeline to dissolve into paradox goop. 

There will be lighter moments as well. Action is a must. Espionage. Tearjerkers. Family. Some baby BatCat sprinkled in, because I'm still salty over how much of a mess Gotham ended on the relationship between those two. Because I like my canon unrealistically happy. And Selina in tears and Bruce running away from emotions is not happy. Not that they'll be happy for a majority of this story. They're not in a great place, and that's all I'm going to say on that. 

But enough about that. The first story I described is a lot better in the dark themes area. There will be serious moment, but also a healthy source of humor. The Joker will not be present. Two-Face is the villain, because I had an idea and ran with it. Other than that, there's an unusual cast of characters, with a possible lack of Robins. Lucius Fox, again, Alfred, again, Gordon, again, Leslie Thompkins, too, because I like her. The Council of Nocturne _may_ make a cameo appearance, but I doubt they'll play a major role. Selina and Bruce will be adults, though Bruce ain't exactly Batman. You'll see. Maybe. Also, as the last thing I'll say on this, it doesn't take place in modern Gotham. Clever readers can place their bets in the comments below on what trope I'm thoroughly abusing here. 

Well, that's all I have to say, other than thank you for reading, and to stay safe in this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bets, bets, place your bets! What weird thing has sprung out of my mind and you might see in a few months?
> 
> Thanks for reading. See ya later!


	14. Lights, Camera, Batman! Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation. Really, that's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha so this was all dialogue originally enjoy I guess

The Watchtower. A huge hunk of rock with a top-notch superhero base attached to it, orbiting Earth. Meeting place for the not-quite-new but certainly not mature Justice League of America. The JLA, who was attempting to convince the general population that they weren't going to take over the world. Many governments had tentatively agreed that the group was trustworthy, but the last monster to slay was the behemoth of the UN, which made up most of Europe and was essential in allowing the JLA to exist. 

Ironic, considering that the A of JLA stood for _America_ , but whatever. Negotiations were going well, it had appeared. _Appeared_ , of course, being the key word. 

The Watchtower was all but abandoned, save for two of the three heads of the team. One, formerly thought to be little more than an urban legend, a nightmare of shadows and black Kevlar. The other, America's golden boy, the son of Krypton.

One knew that this conversation would not be going well. 

The Bat of Gotham had never looked so human before as he did now, Kal-el, Clark Kent, Superman, reflected as the other man set down the sheet of paper and sighed. Hands encased in heavy gauntlets rubbed at eyes hidden behind white lenses. 

"So what you're saying," Batman began, "is that in order for the JLA to retain permission to operate from the UN, I need to let the equivalence of a camera crew into my home to, and I quote, 'document the Batman in his natural environment.'"

Clark Kent (god, he was too tired to be Superman at this point, he'd been up for hours) nodded. "Yep." 

"And you thought I would be okay with this... Why?"

He didn't have an answer. 

"Answer me, Kal-el."

Ooh, shit, he was in trouble now. 

"They didn't really give me a choice," he offered lamely. 

Batman gave him a flat stare, one of such disbelief that it would make Clark doubt that the sky was blue if such a statement was greeted with that look. 

"You're Superman, of course you have a fucking choice," he said. And Clark could tell that the other man was tired too, hovering over the blurry line between Dark Knight and just Bruce. Never Brucie Wayne, no, that figure was just a mask, and a damn uncomfortable one at that. Clark had seen it in the man's eyes, the pain of feigning ignorance, the muffled fury at being idle. 

He was a man of action, no question. Even when staying still, there was a coiled power to him. If anyone bothered to look below the surface, they would see something truly terrifying to those not familiar with the quiet, secret-ridden man. 

"No, I really didn't," Clark said. It was true, he was just a reporter from Kansas, despite his otherworldly origins. And damn, had he felt like just Clark Kent without glasses and wearing a cape in that moment, and not some being gifted with extraordinary powers. "Remember, ruthless badassery is your thing, I'm the wholesome American boy next door."

"Bullshit. You're a fucking cardshark on poker night. And you don't even use x-ray vision."

Oh yeah. Clark Kent had scammed the king of fucking Atlantis (because that was a thing now) and a freaking space-cop out of two-hundred and forty bucks last week. Clark Kent could maybe just be a badass was well. 

"You bet your ass."

Bruce groaned, and Clark could tell it was Bruce and not the Bat because he had taken the cowl off, a rare show of vulnerability from the man. Not like he wouldn't wipe the security camera footage later, of course. The man was paranoid as hell. 

He ran a gauntlet through messy dark hair, scowling when the normally-sharp protusions, dulled from combat, caught slightly in the strands. _Cowl-hair,_ Clark thought with amusement. How utterly _normal_.

"Do they even know that I'm less bat, more man?" he asked, tilting his head back and grimacing. 

Clark shrugged. From the wording of the letter, it was pretty obvious. "Doubt it."

"Shit. Time to bust out the semi-permanent adhesive for the domino masks." He was clearly anything but thrilled at the prospect. And Clark kicked himself, he really should have remembered that it wasn't just Batman in that cave. It was almost half a dozen other vigilantes running back and forth. 

"What, you're not always in full uniform?" A joke often made between other members. It was only because of previous experiences with Clark that the Bat had entrusted his identity to the Kryptonian. Everyone else on the Watchtower was completely unaware that it was Bruce Wayne behind the mask. 

That same flat stare. "Considering there are showers down there, no. I do not shower in a Kevlar bat costume." 

"Why the hell do you have showers there?" _How the hell did they have running water down there_ , was really what Clark wanted to ask. But they somehow had running water on the Watchtower, and that was in _space_ , so Clark just assumed that money could buy breaks in the laws of physics.

"Have you seen the shit I have to deal with? Mutilated corpses are the theme with at least _three_ regulars. Not to mention the toxins, sewer waste, and whatever new and horrific pollen Ivy has got whipped up." 

Oh, right. It was Gotham. Hell, even without the Rogues fucking around, Clark would probably take a shower after going around the city at night. 

"I see your point."

Bruce sighed again, and Clark thought that those sighs must be the manifestation of the guy's utter contempt for bureaucracy. "This is going to be a fucking shit show."

"Tell me why. I have money on this." Clark thought he knew enough about the Bat that it wouldn't just be 'I hate people.' Oliver could eat shit. 

Surprisingly, the other man showed no reaction at the news of him being the center of a bet between his colleagues. "Well, one, they're a bunch of UN ambassadors in Gotham," he began. "Gotham. Gotham is going to chew them up and spit them out and they will blame me because they can't tell that the nice old man on the street was giving them candy laced with fear toxin."

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Oh no." 

"See, you'd think they have some fucking _common sense_ , but _no_. Don't take candy from strangers? Apparently _seventeen_ tourists in the last month alone were not taught that lesson," Bruce said. 

"Who the hell goes to Gotham as a _tourist_?" Clark asked. "Gotham is infamous for being batshit." He winced as the unintentional pun slipped out.

"I'm going to ignore that," Bruce said. "And to answer your question, people who've lost a bet, idiots who think they're tough shit because they have a pocketknife and tattoos, a few people visiting some family, and no less than six people who I've had to rescue because they were crackpot conspiracy theorist and wanted to catch a glimpse of the legendary Batman and got caught in a _drug deal._ " 

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"Yeah, it was a few of these 'the government is covering up everything' people. Three of them wanted to expose me as none other than Commissioner Gordon, angling for a raise," the other man said. "Two others thought I was a demon from Hell and threw holy water on me and shoved a _crucifix_ in my face."

"Imagine their terror when that didn't work," Clark said dryly. 

"Just about pissed themselves when Robin dropped down from the roof and started chanting in Arabic," Bruce said. "It was a fun night. Had to call Gordon to get them out of there because they were frozen in terror."

"What about the last one?" Clark questioned. 

"Oh, that one was the nuttiest of the bunch," he said, waving a hand. "Wanted to sacrifice a squirrel to me or something."

"Okay, so other than Gotham being not for the faint of heart, what else about UN officials popping on over to Gotham irks you?"

"I have a system of doing things, I'm sure you know," Bruce said. "They are going to be questioning that system, and I am not going to have answers for them, other than people die if I do it another way. They're going to ask about the memorial. The _memorial_ , Clark."

Clark's stomach dropped. Oh shit. He should have known, he should've remembered, what the hell is wrong with him?

"I need to hide the name," Bruce said, looking down. "They're going to ask why a child was a soldier in this war. And I will not have an answer for them." 

Clark remembers Bruce after the death of Jason Todd. _No more,_ he had said. _Enough. Too many have thrown their lives away in a fight that they had nothing to do with._ And Clark had watched the Dark Knight consume his friend, how violent he had become, how close he was to losing himself completely. 

Clark didn't want to be glad that another child was placed in danger. He didn't. But he also knew that someone who was trained by Batman was no ordinary person, and Tim Drake was already extraordinary to begin with. 

"You put that up as a reminder that children are not soldiers." 

_Soldiers are prepared to die for their cause. I've already accepted my fate_ , Bruce had said before, and Clark had the horrible feeling that he didn't want to know what he meant by that. 

(He also had the feeling that he already knew.)

 _Children are not soldiers_ , Bruce had said, the calm and expressionless look on his face betrayed by the ocean of grief in his eyes. _Children should be children._

"But they keep on enlisting," Bruce said quietly. Clark understood. Better they have a fighting chance than them just throwing themselves into the slaughter. "And those fucks at the UN don't know that. And I don't want to tell them that."

They wouldn't understand, Clark knew. Hell, he himself didn't get it completely. But Gotham was Gotham. And that city, she was something completely different. 

"Alfred needs to stay out of the cave, the showers need to be closed, the chemistry lab shut down," Bruce continued, moving on from more emotional topics. "Everything even remotely dangerous needs to be put away, because I'm halfway convinced that those self-important assholes would somehow find a way to cause plain old dirt to explode." 

"I'm sorry, you're the one who makes dangerous chemical compounds for fun or when you're stressed," Clark said. 

"Chemistry is my stress-baking," the other man said. "You just can't lick the spoon."

"It _exploded_ when you dropped a cotton ball in it!" 

"That's what it's _supposed_ to do!"

"You weren't even wearing _safety goggles,_ Bruce," Clark said. "Don't you need to set a good example for Robin?" 

"I highly doubt that some safety goggles are better than high-tech infrared-capable lenses," Bruce said. "And it's not like I would make a mistake. I spent over five years learning this. I would hope I would be more responsible than a highschool kid in a lab." 

"Isn't Red Robin in highschool?"

"The lab in the Batcave is much better than some classroom," Bruce said. "I would've also said that he is far more responsible as well, but last week I caught him refining caffeine to make coffee that would probably make you hear colors."

"Why'd you stop him?" Clark asked. 

"I didn't, actually. But I made him destroy the stuff when the mouse we tested it on fucking _exploded_ ," Bruce said. "Hell if I know how it happened."

These people. How. Scratch that what Clark said about understanding the Bats of Gotham, he doubted God himself could. "Holy God." 

The other man waved a hand again. "It's fine, the lab and everything else is going to be locked away. Including all the exhibits and trophies. We can't have exploding diplomats."

"But that's almost everything that makes the Batcave the Batcave. And don't you use the chemical analysis regularly?" Clark asked. 

Bruce threw his arms up in the air. "That's my point. I cannot work with the same quality I do while babysitting a bunch of diplomats."

"I can call this off if it's going to put lives in danger-" Clark said. 

"No, it's fine," Bruce interrupted. "How long are they going to be staying? An hour? Two?" 

Clark winced. "Dusk until dawn." 

Bruce's face went flat again. "You're fucking kidding me. I don't even go out until ten." 

Clark shrugged. "According to the UN, you're nocturnal."

"Fucking _no_ I'm not. I don't sleep the day away. I sleep before and after patrol. I have a day job," Bruce said, looking offended. "I'm _responsible_. Who do they take me for?"

"Wait, do you actually get _more_ than three hours of sleep?" Clark asked. To be perfectly honest, he just assumed that Bruce ran on spite and darkness.

"Seven until nine, three until six, and sleep if I can catch it during the day," Bruce said. "And somehow, on the weekends, I get more patrol time and more sleep." 

"Your circadian rhythm is fucked to all hell," Clark said. "It kinda scares me."

"Damn straight," Bruce said, sounding a little proud, for some reason. "That's why I can't sleep more than four hours at a time." 

"Should I tell them to wait a while?" Clark asked. "I'd hate to interrupt your beauty rest."

Bruce glared a little. "Nah. I'm expecting a slow night. The next few days after Arkham breakouts always are, especially if I catch them all in one night. Makes all the criminals think I'm something that came straight from hell."

Oh, yeah. Bruce had just rounded up Poison Ivy, Riddler, Bane, and Scarecrow all in one night. Clark felt a little bad that he was keeping him here when really, he probably needed to sleep for around thirty hours. 

However, to suggest something like that would only result in receiving a Bat Glare™ and the man running off to interrupt a drug ring with no thought whatsoever to his own safety. 

And besides, this was probably one of the most civil conversations he's ever had with Bruce. It's kinda nice being able to talk without the pressure of having to save the world or being a billionaire talking to a reporter. It's just them, as they are. 

"You make the Rogues sound like Pokemon," Clark said, half-seriously.

Bruce snorted. "Wow! My Riddler's evolving into a Huge Pain In The Ass!" he said sarcastically. 

"But what's your plan for them?" Clark asked. "The camera crew infringing on your territory."

Bruce looked at the ceiling, leaning back in his chair. "Plan A is to sic my children on them and hope they leave," he said. "However, Robin _might_ actually pull a sword on them and I don't want CPS sniffing around me as Batman. I already get enough crap from them as a civilian anyway. Plan B is to sic Gordon on them and hope they leave."

"What's the Commissioner going to do?" Clark asked. 

"Give them a look that says 'what the fresh _fuck_ are you doing?'" Bruce said. "Lord knows it works on a half-drunk Green Lantern, it'll work on God himself."

Clark had almost removed the memory of that incident from his mind. Almost. And now it was back in glorious Technicolor. 

"Aren't you still technically a vigilante?" he asked. "Aren't you still supposed to be arrested?"

"You betcha." Bruce said. "But, that was by the order of Loeb, who was the Commissioner before Commissioner Gordon, and Loeb was corrupt as all _hell_. I was the one who sent the state all the info I had."

"So you didn't directly take him down?" Clark asked. 

"Well, I did crash through his window and told him to stop whatever illicit activities he was doing," Bruce said. "Then he put a bounty on my head, and that's when I started making the rope that was going to hang him. Three months later, I sent it to the state." 

"You just... Dropped it off on their doorstep?" Clark asked. 

"That's not _nearly_ dramatic enough," Bruce said. "No, I snuck in at night, dropped it on the governor's desk and left a note signed with a bat."

"Oh, I remember that now," Clark recalled. "That was the first time I heard you laugh with malicious glee." 

"I did?" Bruce blinked. 

"You called me at four in the morning, sounding like you had way too many coffees, saying how your 'master plan' had been put into effect and to keep an eye on the news. Then you hung up," Clark said. "It was one of the stranger calls I've gotten." 

"I apologize for caffeine-crazed me," Bruce said. "When I looked at my phone history that night, I also seemed to have called Gordon and congratulated him on his promotion before it happened. When he asked me how I knew he was going to get promoted, I shit you not, I fucking responded 'Magic,' and hung up."

"How have you not been found out?" Clark said, trying not to wheeze. 

"Mmm, plausible deniability is a sweet, sweet thing," Bruce said. "Gordon turns a blind eye legally, and I can catch him the ten most wanted by the end of the week."

"Gotham, or FBI?" Clark asked. "Did you want a change of pace or something?"

"Once I did both," Bruce said. "I got bored."

"How did the FBI react?" Clark and. "It's not every day that a vigilante catches ten of the most wanted criminals in a week."

Bruce smiled briefly. "Poor man, I actually thought the director was going to shit himself when I dropped each of them off," he said. "I caught the last three all at once and I had to drop them off in broad daylight."

"Wait, so they didn't know that it was you?" Clark questioned. 

"No, but they finally got a clue when the Batmobile rolled up with three unconscious criminals in the back," Bruce said. "Bunch of them started screaming and pulled guns on me."

"Your sterling reputation at its finest," Clark said. "I remember seeing it on the news. Didn't they call SWAT first because they thought you were going to storm the building or something?"

"Yeah," the other man dragged out the word. "That may have been a mistake, just jumping out and heading to the entrance. Luckily, they had Bronze Tiger on loan from Waller's Suicide Squad. He challenged me to a spar and then we went back and forth for a bit."

Yeah, like it was that simple. "He worded it as death match, didn't he."

"Yes, yes he did. It's a joke between us."

"And I bet that neither the FBI or SWAT knew that," Clark said. 

"No, no they did not." 

"They stopped broadcasting after you broke Tiger's nose. Why didn't they shoot?" Clark asked. 

"Well, we were moving pretty fast. It would've been impossible to get a clean shot in," Bruce said. "And Tiger just said that it was alright and I wasn't going to commit treason or something like that. He managed to break a rib at that point, so I was a little more focused why the hell I let that happen."

"You're actually insane."

Bruce laughed. "No, the SWAT schmuck who tried to go head-to-head with me was. It wasn't even a fight. It was a massacre."

"Seriously?" Clark asked. "I thought they were the elite?" 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Fucking tried to _drop-kick_ nearly three hundred pounds of muscle, Kevlar, and vengeance. He wasn't the brightest crayon in the box."

" _Three hundred pounds of muscle, Kevlar, and vengeance-_ " Clark whispered to himself. 

"Shut up, you're the one who once said ' _I picked a whole bouquet of whoops-a-daisies,_ ' and I'm _still_ thinking about that," the other man shot back.

"That was a whole month ago!" Clark protested. 

"That's my point." 

"You know what?" Clark said, waving his hand, "that whole debacle is probably why the UN is coming to the Batcave in the first place."

"I wouldn't call it a debacle, really," Bruce said, with all his love of stupid vocabulary. "It was more of a brouhaha."

"That doesn't change the fact that the UN's ass is grass when they come knocking on Gotham's door," Clark said. 

Frankly, it was like why horror movies couldn't take place in Gotham. No one in their right mind willingly goes into the sewers, and even if Pennywise did shake up his hunting tactics, he'd be likely to get jumped and robbed in an alley.

Okay, maybe that was an overexaggeration, but still. Gotham hated clowns. And killer animals. And scarecrows. And maybe they liked Halloween out of stubborn spite and hung up every bat decoration within a fifty-mile radius just to anger one evil chemist. 

Actually, strike that. Being in Gotham was like living in a goddamn cartoon. 

"Ugh. When are they coming?" Bruce asked, oblivious to Clark's developing philosophy on Gotham Strangeness™. "Or, more accurately, when do I have to pick them up outside the city limits?" 

Clark shrugged. "A week from now. They just sent me the message a few hours ago." 

"Right," Bruce sighed. "At least that's doable. I can child-proof the Batcave for the literal adults before they arrive and mess everything up."

Clark grinned. "Send me a picture of their reactions when they realize that you don't actually hang upside down and eat insects," he said. "I might frame it."

Bruce snorted. "Fuck pictures, I'm extending you an actual invitation to watch this affair."

"Woah, you're letting me come into your sanctuary?" Clark asked in mock surprise. "I'm honored. Do I get a visitor's badge?"

"If I don't suffer through this alone, I'll be your fucking tour guide," the other man said. 

"I'm not going to play referee between you and the head of the people who get sent over into Gotham, Bruce," Clark said. "It's about time that you learned how to play with others."

"Actually, you're not even going to be seen, if all goes to plan," Bruce said, a terrifyingly familiar crafty glint coming into his eyes. 

"I'll be up-front with you, I'm _mildly_ terrified," Clark said. 

"Only the camera crew should be terrified," said Bruce. He stood up, stretched, and put the cowl back on.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Clark said. "In fact, that makes me feel worse."

"Good," said the Bat of Gotham, stalking off to the Zeta tube. He stepped through and left Clark Kent, Kal-el, Superman, alone in the Watchtower, pondering the fate of one extremely unfortunate camera crew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not continue this
> 
> Please go and check out my other Batman fic, it just got another chapter! Thanks!
> 
> (Also comments are my crack feed my addiction)


	15. The Council of Nocturne and Their Really Weird House That May Or May Not Implode On Itself At Any Given Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the really long tin.

So, let’s talk more about the Council of Nocturne. Their meeting place, for example. It’s a pocket dimension, definitely, but at the same time, it’s a Waystation. It exists outside of time and space, so that way, in dire emergencies, Bats who need more time to figure a problem out or recover from an injury have time to do so. An emergency may also qualify as the Council saying "hell no" to teen Batman studying for four AP finals and so help him God, he’ll sleep when he’s dead. Yeah, 167 wasn’t too thrilled at being shot by a tranq dart and dragged through a portal, but what are ya gonna do? 

The Waystation, I think, would just be called the Manor. A simple name that wouldn’t raise any alarm bells. And also, it fits with my uber-long, OC-packed, word count over 500,000 words fanfiction-esque way of how it works. The Manor is essentially Wayne Manor. It has the study, the library, the kitchen, all the rooms and places. But it’s also much, much bigger than Wayne Manor. See, the Manor will adapt to how many people are living in it at any given time. It can fit over a thousand people in it, if need be. Hallways will extend, rooms will appear out of nowhere, stairs lead up to another floor that should not exist. It sounds like people should be getting lost all the time, right? No. Because as long as you have a destination in mind, the Manor will spit in the eye of Albert Einstein and lead you there within a timely manner. 

The Manor, existing outside of time and space and doing everything that laws of physics tells it not to do, is supremely unstable. Like, it wants to collapse in on itself and suck everything into a black hole, unstable. Fortunately, as long as someone is living in the Manor, this won’t happen. But with a bunch of caretakers who always have to run off the save the world, who’s able to watch it? Well, the ones that have had their identities revealed. They’re the ones who stay and make sure everything stays in place while also letting that fallout of the revelation of the biggest secret outside of Wikileaks fodder settle down. But how? The whole reason why someone needs to stay there is because the Manor exists outside of time and space, right? Therefore, time doesn’t move in that universe and it’s only putting a pause on things. My hand wavy answer to some already pretty hand wavy science questions is that some universes can just have their settings tweaked a little bit. Just go into settings, it’s right under brightness and above Wi-Fi. So, these people stay there, preventing the Manor from imploding and killing everyone. What heroes. But another thing they do is make sure that time passes in the Manor. Why this is important, I’m not quite sure yet. Oh, yeah, it’s to make sure that people don’t just pop in and out all the time and miss what’s happening in their own Gotham.

Something else that I think is important to mention. The people in the Council of Nocturne. I’ve already said multiple times that they’re the Batmen of the multiverse, but that’s just a blanket term. There’s the Beyond Universe, the Flashpoint Universe, and many, many others from various fanfictions that I’ve read on this wonderful site. One, specifically, that I can tell you, is from Changer, an utterly BRILLIANT fic by FuzzedlyFree. Go. Go read it, right the fuck now, and your life will be better. I promise (but not really, because I don’t want to get angry comments saying how they read it and their life was still the same, nay, worse than what it was before, but whatever). There are spoilers beyond this point, so wheeeee off we go don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The first scenario, really, really, gripped me. The concept of Bruce Wayne, lord of them all [the mobs, that is,], a king in all name (DIRECT QUOTE I LOVE IT SO), is just *chef’s kiss* *mwah*. I really, really, wanna write a short lil thing about it, I love it so much. Don Wayne, the King of Gotham is just so fascinating to me. And the reason why he’s in the Council is because even though he kills and probably uses a gun (oof really have to write a headcanon about that one day), he has rules. A strict line in the sand. And the other members can respect that, and honestly, he has a mind for strategy. He’s useful as hell to the Council, and so they’re willing to cut him the same amount of slack that they do for Thomas.

Another one is someone that has sprung completely from my own mind. Like, I’ve never, ever read a fic with this as the premise. I’ve read fics that sorta kinda not really are like it, but uh. It’s… niche, I would say. Pretty exclusive. Hear me out: Bruce Wayne. As Danny Phantom. Don’t fucking ask me to explain it, but just imagine fifteen year old Bruce trying to impress Diana or because Hal dared him to do it (and he’s not going to be chicken-shit according to Hal), and he kinda halfway kills himself in a portal that Wayne Enterprises R&D was developing. And then, just showing up in the Manor one day because the Ghost Zone (or PHANTOM ZO- no, would that work? Nevermind) led there apparently and he was like “Why is my house here?” And of course, the members of the Council that have seen/have heard of Danny Phantom being thrilled that this universe exists. This in turn, would probably lead to a marathon or something of Danny Phantom and Phantom-Bat being like, i M n O t T h A T s T U p I d g u Y S c O m E o N

This isn’t a non-sequitur, trust me, but apparently Batman Beyond starts in 2019, which is fucking bullshit, by the way. Like, hell no, this is at least in the 2070’s at this point, you think that tech comes in just twenty years? Haha, no. And my personal headcanon of Terry needing to be taught references like Captain America is too good to not be real, so again, fuck it. Everything from Arnold Schwarzenegger to _The Princess Bride_ is a complete and utter mystery to him. Inconceivable, some might say.

What’s more, there’s already a present-day Batman, the one in his early 20’s, whom I call 52, because in my mind, he looks like the New 52 Batman does. Who also happens to be best fucking friends with Terry, because they’re bros. Not that Terry has any goddamn clue what a Bro is, but he thinks it’s good. Together, they give Thomas and Bryce (who has the _only brain cell,_ she swears to God) and all the other versions of Bruce literal hell, for shits and giggles. Pranks wars and paintball fights and unannounced pop-ins on other universes are all fair game. Once, they even moved every single piece of furniture in the Manor precisely three and a half inches to the right and watched the chaos bloom.

So when Phantom-Bat shows up in all of his ecto-glory, he is immediately taken in by 52 and Terry and taught the glorious art of raising hell. Literally, I guess, in his case. The chaotic dumbassery is strong with these three, can’t you tell? Phantom-Bat is thrilled with his new friends, but quite confused too. “So let me get this straight,” he says, casually blasting targets to smithereens as a favor to the more science inclined members of the Council. They want to run tests, of course, and he’s a little tetchy with that, until they promise that if he doesn’t want to do something, then they’re not going to do it to him. Enough of them are science experiments themselves that they get how he feels. “Most of you decided that after your parents were murdered, that dressing up as a bat and punching crime in the face was a healthy coping mechanism?”

“Hey,” Terry says, mildly offended. “We never said it was healthy. We just said it was therapeutic.” Not that that's any better of course, but considering how the majority of mental health officials in Gotham are insane themselves or mildly homicidal at best, it’s not like they could easily find a decent therapist. “And bats are fucking cool,” he adds, just barely restraining himself from adding a _so there_ like the child he is. I mean, He’s probably joined after the show ended but before the epilogue episode, so mayyybe Bruce is dead? Maybe not? I don't know. But Terry can function on his own is what I'm going with. He's mid to late twenties, young enough to not be doom and gloom and brooding on high ledges, but old enough that he's been doing this for a while and has some semblance of what the hell is happening at any given moment.

They’re like, Gen Z all the way, and it concerns some of the older members of the Council, but at the same time, they’re also low-key delighted by their disregard for anything an authority figure says. Except when said authority figure is them, then they just get annoyed.

I think that’s it, for now. I know this wasn’t a continuation of the last chapter, which people seemed to enjoy, and I’m sorry about that. But good news! If it’s not up tonight, then it will be up maybe tomorrow? I’m headed out of state with my brother, so I might not have time to post it. But it might be up tonight! I better get started then. 


	16. Lights, Camera, Batman! Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The camera crew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really like these guys. I hope you like them too.

The inconspicuous black car was one of many in the nightmare that was Gotham traffic. Inside was over four thousand dollars of high-tech camera equipment. And three people, professionals, who were being paid a hefty price to film what would be history in the making. To film what was once thought to be little more than an urban legend.

Three people who also have been stuck in a car for four goddamn hours together.

"So uh. Where do we go?" the man driving asked, red hair mussed from the Metropolis hat that had been recently removed after almost getting into two fights on a bathroom break.

"Goddammit, Jerry, why the hell are you driving? You have no sense of direction," the woman in the shotgun seat said, blonde hair cut short but still messy after having removed Jerry from getting his ass kicked in the aforementioned bathroom break fights.

"That's what the GPS is for, _Susan_ ," Jerry shot back, casually flipping another driver off as they swerved, narrowly avoiding their fourth accident of the hour.

"Guys, stop it," the man in the backseat said. This was Dave. Dave had dark hair with Cheeto dust in it because he had an ungodly love of the things. "We're professionals. We've been specially selected for this. We're meeting up with the UN official at the GCPD. Apparently, the Bat likes to hang around there."

He paused, waiting.

"Get it? 'Hang around' 'cause he's a bat, geddit guys-"

"Shut it, Dave," the other two said in unison, the fifteenth time since the trip began.

"So like, he's just there, sitting at a desk or some shit?" Jerry asked. "Drinking at the water cooler?"

"Hell no, he shows up when they shine a big-ass spotlight with a bat on it and then disappears at his own convenience," Dave said. "Drives the Commissioner nuts, or so I've heard."

"Wait, wait, wait," Susan said, waving her hands. "The UN made this sound like some nature documentary. But this guy is a legit human. Do... Do they realize that?" A note of incredulity entered her voice.

Dave snorted. "How the fuck you know that, Susan? Tell me, who do you know that would dress up in a bat costume to beat up criminals? _Who,_ Susan?"

"Shut it, Dave." Number sixteen. If Dave reached twenty, Susan would throw something at him. She had been anticipating this event for the past three hours.

"To answer your question, no, no they do not," Jerry said, running a red light and narrowly missing a pedestrian. "Considering the guy-"

"Bat monster!" Dave sounded slightly hysterical.

"Shut it, Dave - Operates out of a literal fucking cave, I don't blame them. The dude's committed to his theme," Jerry finished. "I'm a natural at this," he said, as the car made a hairpin turn and knocked over a trashcan.

"But like... That's such a bad idea," said Susan, ignoring Jerry's atrocious driving skills.

"Isn't it great?" Jerry asked excitedly. He always did have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.

"No," Dave said, quite calmly. "We're going to get mauled to death by a bat monster and we're going to die with a stuffy-ass politician."

"Dave, Batman doesn't kill-" Jerry said, pulling a very illegal U-turn.

"Because he _eats_ them, Jerry. We're gonna get devoured by a bat monster and his little demonic sidekick," Dave hissed, leaning forward in his seat.

"Robin?" asked Susan. "I don't know. The kid's pretty cute when he's not swinging a sword at people and making death threats."

"Repeat what you just said, but slowly-" Dave started.

"Shuddup, dumbasses. We're here."Jerry parallel-parked perfectly (somehow) in front on the GCPD building.

"Showtime!" Dave cried, clapping his hands together.

"Get your shit, everyone, we have a Bat to film!" said Susan, climbing out of the car.

* * *

Needless to say, three very disheveled people walking in with enough camera equipment to film a movie was a very eye-catching sight. Jerry made it to the front desk and slapped his ID down.

"We have an appointment with the Commissioner and the UN rep," he said importantly.

"Elevator's on the right," said the person behind the desk, not looking up. "Have fun."

The snickers and side glanced they were getting as they made their way to the elevator were slightly off-putting. Dave was about to completely lose his head.

"They're going to _sacrifice_ us, Jerry," he snarled quietly as elevator music played softly. "My throat's gonna be slit on an altar-"

"Right next to the giant dinosaur," Susan said dryly. Jerry laughed while Dave looked incensed.

The doors dinged open and they stepped out on the top floor of the GCPD building. They walked down the hallway, footsteps muffled on carpet. They narrowly fit through the door to the roof.

Susan already had her camera recording. The UN rep, a man who made lemons look sweet, and the Commissioner, a man who looked like he couldn't be bothered to give two fucks about the situation they were in, greeted them. The massive floodlight that had been semi-affectionately dubbed the Bat-signal by the general population lay dark.

"You're late," the UN rep said snippily. "And so is the Batman," he said, turning to the Commissioner.

"Okay, one," said the Commissioner, lighting his pipe. "You're the one who didn't want the Signal on. How the hell is he supposed to know to come here? Read my mind?"

Dave made a small sound of glee that was quickly muffled my Jerry stepping on his foot. Susan kept filming.

"And two, I told you that he doesn't go out until ten," said the Commissioner, sounding aggrieved. "He has five hours before his shift starts, so to speak."

"I thought the Kryptonian spoke with him?" the rep asked.

"I did," said a new voice, coming from above them. This time, Jerry gasped in delight.

"It's _S_ _uperman_ ," he whisper-screamed. "My life is complete."

"Shut it, Jerry," Dave said, taking great relish in how the turns had been tabled.

"There was an agreement to convene at sundown, Superman," the rep said. "An agreement which the Bat is not honoring."

"Well, one," said the alien, "I didn't say anything about an agreement. He understood that you were all meeting in the rooftop of the GCPD at sundown, he didn't say anything about being there."

"So is he not coming?" the Commissioner asked, sounding hopeful.

"Oh, he's going to get to you when you ask for him," said Superman, gesturing to the floodlight. "But he doesn't leave the cave until ten. I'm going to escort you to the cave."

"This is _highly_ improper," the UN rep said.

"I'm lucky to even be allowed in Gotham tonight," Superman said. "Batman really doesn't like others going in his territory. Much less his actual cave."

"So how are you getting four people and a ton of cameras to the Batcave?" asked the Commissioner. "I'm not acting as a chauffeur."

"I can move at supersonic speeds, Commissioner," said Superman with his classic 'truth and justice' smile. "I can drop each of them off outside the entrance within seconds."

Jerry looked like it was his birthday, Christmas, Kwanza, and Hanukah all at once.

"Just make sure you don't drop any," said the Commissioner, heading for the door. "And please tell the Kevlar asshole to refrain from assaulting a UN rep," he called over his shoulder. "I have enough problems already. I don't need a lawsuit."

As the door clanged shut behind him, Superman landed softly on the rooftop, smiling. He looked completely out of place, bright reds and blues standing out against a dull sunset half covered by clouds and the dark buildings rising into the sky. It wasn't dark enough yet for the skyscrapers to be lit up and the effect was eerie. 

"So," the superhero said, moving his arms like he was about to do a warm-up exercise. "Who's first?"

Jerry was delighted to volunteer.

* * *

Dttt was the last one set on the ground, slightly dazed from the split-second flight. Jerry was filming this time, night-vision settings already needed. The skyscrapers had been swapped for trees, the gravel had gone to packed dirt. 

"Seems pretty remote," Susan remarked, looking around. She turned to Superman. "How far is this from Gotham?"

"Using real roads and regarding traffic safety laws, about half an hour," he said. "For the Bat, it's less than fifteen minutes."

The UN rep, who had regained some color, looked displeased. "So the Batman doesn't acknowledge regular laws?" he asked. 

Superman shrugged. "Considering this road doesn't have any speed limit, there aren't any laws to follow around here," he said. "And assuming that you didn't fly directly to the GCPD building, you had to drive through Gotham. Anyone who actually follows the traffic laws is going to cause an accident."

"Has his recklessness caused any fatalities?" the rep pressed. 

Superman blinked. "There are over 170,000 words in the Oxford Dictionary," he said. "And you just found the word least likely to describe Batman. To answer your question, no, not to my knowledge. However, property damage was inevitable."

The UN rep's face set in a deeper frown than before, if that was possible. "I see."

"We're not perfect," Superman continued. "I've been partially responsible for the collapse of at least three empty buildings. Aquaman has caused major flooding twice during large storms. Cyborg has set fire to the Oval Office carpet. A few bent lampposts are paltry in comparison."

"So where is the Batman's headquarters?" the rep asked, looking around. Almost in response, a large boulder slide away from the rock wall to the group's right to reveal a secret passage, of all things. 

"That's not creepy at all," Dave whispered. "Nothing suspicious here, no siree."

"Shut it Dave," Jerry and Susan whispered back. 

"Right down there," Superman said, pointing. "Just keep following it. And try to be quiet. There are apparently real bats that sleep in there." 

"Are you not coming?" Jerry asked, slightly disappointed. 

"No, I'm due back in Metropolis," he said. "And besides, Batman has made it very clear that I'm not to stay in Gotham longer than necessary."

He rose into the air, the dying light making him difficult to see. "I'll return to the GCPD at dawn," he said. "Batman's going to be taking you there. Have fun!"

The superhero flew off without a word, the trees shaking in his wake. Cricket chirps filled the air as the cloud cover moved in. 

"Let's go," said the UN rep, marching smartly down the tunnel. The camera crew looked to each other and shrugged, following him.

* * *

Clark Kent exited one of the many bathrooms in Wayne Manor, dressed in jeans and a hoodie. He adjusted his glasses as he made his way to the study, where Alfred was. 

"Hello, Master Kent," the butler said, formal as ever. Still, there was a warm glint in his eyes. 

"Hi, Alfred," Clark replied. "Is B down there?" He gestured to the grandfather clock. 

The older man sighed. "He is," he said. "And I'm afraid he's plotting. And the last time he plotted, he bought down a government. Do try to prevent him from doing anything rash."

Clark smiled as he opened the secret entrance. "I doubt he'll do anything too bad tonight," he said. "But I have met the UN rep they sent, and I gotta say, something crawled up his rear end and died. I've never met such an unpleasant man."

"Oh, dear," Alfred said in a deadpan. "I do so hope that nothing happens to him tonight." 

"Wouldn't that be unfortunate?" Clark said as he started down the stone stairs. The Batcave was lit up, equipment safely locked away and in perfect condition. The memorial, Clark noticed, had been changed slightly. It was still there, the bloody suit still on display, but the plaque that had Jason's name on it had been removed. 

Voices drew Clark attention to the computer modules. 

"Oracle, come on, just this once-" 

Was Bruce _wheedling_? 

"I said _no_ , and I meant it B. I'm not going to follow your little scheme."

"It'll be _fun_ , Oracle," the other man said. "The one time I give you express permission to mess around with politicians and you turn it down? For once, there's nothing too bad going on in Gotham tonight. Arkham's quiet, there are regular police officers patrolling, and nobody is injured! I've ran the numbers, the statistics that a night like this will ever happen in the next year is seven percent!"

"You're serious," the Commissioner's daughter blinked. "You're serious about this."

"Oracle, tell me when I have ever played a joke."

"I mean, you fell down the stairs last week and that was pretty funny-" 

"That's hurtful, Oracle, I'm wounded," the other man said in a deadpan. "Also, even Clark is here and in on this."

"Hi, Oracle," Clark said, flying over. "What does B want you to do?"

"Pretend to be a computer AI," she said. "Partly because of security, and partly because there's so many things that I can do to mess with them."

"Hell yeah," Clark said. "That's awesome."

"Look, you have free reign," B said. "Pretend to be Skynet, blow the power in the Cave, whatever. Just make sure no one gets hurt. We want them scared, not injured."

"Fine," she said. "Oracle out." The screens went dark and B turned around with a strange expression on his face. It was a mixture of grim determination, excitement, amusement, and the ever-classic consideration of every life voice that had led him to this very moment.

"They're on their way in here," Clark said, landing lightly on the ground. "I'm assuming that the reason I see no one else in here is because they're already out in Gotham?"

While unusually early for the Bats, the shadows would be long enough for them to start their patrol. Besides, tonight was anything but usual. 

"Yes, but Robin's still here. I think he wants to see if they're a threat," B said.

A _t_ _tt_ sounded somewhere above them.

"Everything is in place," B continued. "We have maybe seven more minutes before they reach us, so I suggest you start looking for vantage points." 

Suddenly, the faint screeches of of bats taking flight drifted into the main area. Curses could be heard along with them. 

"That's the five minute mark," B said, sliding the cowl on. "Get going. The show's about to begin."

* * *

"I hate this," muttered Dave for the fifth time since entering the tunnel. "I hate this so, so much."

"It's been maybe four or five minutes, Dave," said Susan. "It's not that bad."

"The Batman certainly seems to be isolated," the lemon-faced UN member said. It was the first time he'd spoken. "Makes one wonder about the response time." 

"I don't think we caught your name," Jerry offered. 

The UN rep straightened and adjusted his tie self-importantly. Which was ridiculous, as the only way one would see that was on the night-vision camera setting. 

"I am Archibald Phillips," he said, or maybe declared. It had that ring to it. "United Nations Representative for over thirty years." 

"This must be pretty new," Susan said. "Bet you never imagined yourself in this situation."

"Frankly," Archibald Phillips sniffed, "this never should've been a situation to begin with. The Batman is a wildcard and a potential loose cannon. As far as the UN is concerned, the Batman likely needs to be contained and studied in a safe and scientific manner."

"But isn't he a person with God-given rights?" asked Susan, ignoring Dave's mutterings about demons. 

"That Batman has been proven to be strong, fast, and violent," Phillips said. "Any attempts to communicate with the Bat from trusted superhumans based outside of Gotham have been meet with hostility, if not outright aggression. While he is vouched for by Commissioner Gordon and Superman, one has shown dubious ethics concerning vigilantism and the other is from an entirely different planet." The dislike was obvious in the man's voice. 

"Jerry," said Dave, already knowing what was coming. "Jerry, don't."

"It's not worth it, Jerry," Susan said. 

Jerry didn't care. 

"Superman," he began quietly, "has done so much good, not only in Metropolis, but all over the world. He has saved thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, from death and injury. Despite having so many powers and gifts regular people can only dream of, he's never once acted arrogant or demanded praise. He'd just as soon help an old lady with her shopping as save a man trapped in a burning building or a sinking ship. He's been seen at children's hospitals flying with sick kids. He'll ask for your name and he'll remember it, too. He's gone to _fucking bake sales_ because he wants to help however he can." During Jerry's speech, his voice rose and rose until he was almost shouting. Archibald Phillips looked highly offended by the ginger man's audacity to hold an opinion that was contrary to his. 

Dave and Susan kept the group moving, used to Jerry's passioned speeches about the greatness of Superman. 

" _Superman_ ," Jerry thundered, with all the gusto of a Southern preacher, "is a shining beacon of _light_ in this world, a reminder that _anyone_ can do good. It doesn't _matter_ that he's from another planet or that he can fly or that he's bulletproof! He's human enough to care about people who are far weaker than him, and _that's good enough for me!"_

The acoustics of the tunnel gave an echoing power to his words, but that the same time, it woke up the hundred of sleeping bats just up ahead. 

As the chittering and screeching horde grew closer and closer, Dave's face paled. 

"Oh shit," he said eloquently. 

All forms of every cuss word under the sun was heard as the group stumbled through the thick cloud of wings and tiny claws. Just as suddenly as it had come, the assault ended, with one lone bat frantically struggling to escape Susan's hair. 

While she shrieked and flailed, the rest of the group slowly moved forward in awe at the sight in front of them. Waterfalls plunged into an underground lake while stalactites hung from above like the teeth of some monstrous beast. Even more bats swooped in the air above them. 

Yet even the natural beauty of the cave was outshined by the mechanical aspect. Gleaming equipment stood ready in racks. A computer sigil glowed with green and blue information, too fast for the eye to see. A smooth and streamlined but wicked looking car stood still and silent.

"The Bat Cave," Susan whispered, having gotten the little hell beast out of her hair. 

"Incredible," said Dave, momentarily forgetting his fear of being eaten alive. 

"But where is the Bat?" asked Archibald Phillips.

"Right behind you," a voice snarled. 

And then, the lights snapped off, plunging them into complete darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Jerry, Susan, and Dave?   
> And I know I left it on a cliffhanger ahahaha


	17. The Second Truth Of Batman (Council of Nocturne Stories) Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Bruce Wayne. But there is also Stygian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of nervous about this one, guys. I've done research. I've binge watched DisassociaDID videos (they're so great), and I really hope I've done a good job portraying DID. If I've missed anything or gotten something wrong, please, please tell me so I can fix it.
> 
> Trigger warning for attempted suicide - please be careful 
> 
> Enjoy!

It started in the alleyway. For us, everything does. But _us_ has a slightly different meaning than it does to the rest of you.

For those of you who don’t know, Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID, is a mental disorder in which two or more distinct personalities are present in the same person. That’s a vast, _vast_ oversimplification, but it’ll do for now. It was formerly known as MPD, Multiple Personality Disorder, but that term hasn’t been used in maybe thirty years.

DID makes itself known anytime after the age of six. It develops as a result of repeated or massive trauma before the ages of six to nine. I’ve heard of from five to ten as well, but it’s in that general time range.

You’re all smart. Guess what happened.

We all have problems with our identity, right? What’s the mask, what’s real? It comes with keeping as many secrets as we do.

But in that alleyway, the identity of Bruce Wayne was _shattered_. Who you see, and I suppose who you don’t see at the moment, is the result. Think of it like a dropped glass bowl. Which piece is the original bowl?

I look like Bruce Wayne. I act as Bruce Wayne. I call myself Bruce Wayne. But the original? The one who went to the movies with his parents? He’s _gone_. I’m _not_ him. The diagnosis we received confirms that.

Trippy.

And also _terrifying_.

I’ve had some people walk up to us and demand to meet Stygian. That’s what he calls himself, by the way. Alfred gave him the idea. But that’s beside the point. They demand him to take the reins, so to speak, at the drop of the hat, and yeah, while he has done that before, that was to protect me.

DID is a _survival tactic._ It’s to protect the child from whatever trauma is occurring, because the brain doesn’t believe that they would survive it without amnesia blocks. I remember the movie. I remember walking into that alley. And then the next thing I remember is James Gordon, kneeling in front of me with his coat around my shoulders and him asking me if I was alright, if I could speak. Stygian has that time block.

I resented Stygian for that. I was so, _so_ angry that he wouldn’t let me remember anything, because we might’ve had something that would help them catch whoever did it. Well, it turned out that Stygian decided to do it a few years later, without any help at all. But later.

When we try to explain that it doesn’t work like that, most people are understanding. They’re alright. I suggest to them a few books and videos if they want to learn more, and usually, they do. Good people, most of them.

But _then_. Then, there are the assholes who turn to whoever they’re with and say, _see? He’s faking it._ Or, _He’s just crazy._

We’re not faking. And we’re. Not. Crazy.

Do you have any idea how hurtful it is, to have someone look you in the eye, and say that your trauma _isn’t valid?_ That what you went through didn’t affect you _at all?_ That you’re making everything up, for attention or for sympathy or whatever? We’ve even had a few people accuse us of doing it for the _money_ , which is hilarious to me. Stygian doesn’t find it nearly as amusing. Like, _honey_ , my name is at the front of a _multi-billion_ dollar business, you think I care about _money?_

I suppose that we have an advantage. No one can challenge the fact that our parents were murdered. But other people like us? They don’t have that buffer.

Another point of contention that we face is that Bruce Wayne was eight when the Wayne murders took place. Well after six, and at the tail end of when the personality solidifies. Call us late bloomers, then.

Most people look at Harvey Dent, Two-Face, our friend, and say, _He’s got multiple personalities._ But he doesn’t fit the symptoms of DID. It’s a _dissociative disorder_. He would have gaps of time where he’s completely in control and times where he has no idea what he’s been doing for the past hour or so.

Unless, he’s in a permanent state of co-consciousness, which usually takes tons and tons of communication between alters to happen, or so I’ve heard. For him to have that from the get-go? Then again, Harvey was always a special case.

Alters have roles in the system. A _system_ is what you call the body, I guess, but “body” also has kind of wonky connotations for us. I’m what people call the host, the one who fronts most often. I’m what most people see. Stygian doesn’t much like talking to regular people. Hell, _Alfred’s_ only ever interacted with him once or twice.

Alter roles in the system can change.

Stygian was a persecutor.

Persecutors are the ones you see in horror movie tropes. The Beast of _Split_ and all that.

That’s bullshit.

We aren’t a horror trope. We’re _people_. And with the way alters are formed? They’re less likely to attack other people, and more likely to be the victim, because an alter is a _survival mechanism._ It protects. Some physical protectors can become aggressive and lash out to defend against abuse. But it is to defend. An alter deciding to up and kidnap and kill some people is about as likely as your pet dog standing up on its hind legs and reciting Shakespeare.

Just because our head’s a little more crowded doesn’t mean we’re monsters. We’re not going to hurt you. And we’re not all that scary. We’re just people.

And alters aren’t just other personalities, they’re other people. People with memories, with names. And to call one alter evil is like calling one person evil. You can’t. People aren’t just all one thing. Part of our humanity is to have shades of color. Granted, some people like the Batman Who Laughs are just one shade away from Vantablack, but he was once a regular person. He could’ve been one of _us_.

Persecutors act the way they do because they _hurt_. They’re in _agony_ , most of the time. They’re holding all that trauma in by themselves, and it _poisons_ them. They have skewed ways of trying to protect the system. They’ll hurt the system they’re in to soften the blow of abuse after a period without it. They’ll damage the system to try to teach the other alters how to behave and prevent further injury.

Persecutors can be the _scariest goddamn things on the planet._

Persecutors, at the core, are protectors. They’re trying to protect the system in the long run. And with enough communication, they can become regular protectors, ones that don’t hurt the system.

They’re people, and they’re in _pain_. That’s who they are, and they deserve happiness like the rest of us. _Stygian_ deserves happiness. They shouldn’t be suffering. Not alone, at least.

Stygian, now, hangs out near the system’s head. I can almost… _feel_ him, in a sense. Almost like I’m being watched, but from the inside, and less creepy than it sounds.

But before he was Stygian, before the diagnosis, after the alleyway and the funeral (and I don’t remember anything about that either. I lost twelve hours, from when I got dressed, and then it was night, and Alfred was making me hot chocolate), he was just this pit in my stomach. We, and it was _we_ at this point. I just didn’t know it, felt awful things, thought awful things. _It was my fault, if I could’ve just done something, if I wasn’t so useless._ There were days when we couldn’t eat anything, he made us feel so bad.

And then the Nightmare showed up.

We’ve all dealt with nightmares. Horrific ones, to be sure. But this was different. It was a fragment of an alter, and it was _not human_. It wasn't an animal or a ghost or any variants we’ve ever heard of before. 

(By the way? Animal alters? _Coolest_ thing we’ve ever heard of. We’ve met a few systems with non-human alters, and we learned so much.)

We saw it in our dreams. Lucid dreams, as we later learned. It was this… _thing_ , pitch black, shapeless, inhuman. It _r_ _adiated_ pure misery and malice. And it whispered in my ear, as I was frozen, horrible, horrible things. Things that I never want to hear again. Things that shook me to my core and cut me open and raw and _bleeding_. 

_Split_ does not show DID accurately. But if there was anything close to the Beast, the Nightmare was it. 

It referred to itself as an it. I asked it. Or maybe thought it, in the dream. There was no way I could’ve talked. I asked it what it wanted and it told me that it wanted _agony_. It told me it wanted pain and suffering and misery on _everything_. 

That was the first time Alfred woke me up from a nightmare. He said I was screaming. 

I’m sorry. It’s hard. I’m trying not to disconnect, because then Stygian is going to take over and he’s going to be mad. I want to do this. Just. It’s hard. 

We’re good. 

Some of you, before you swore your lives to the endless battle that is our Mission, visited our parents’ graves. Some of you young’uns went into the woods, and you’ll learn about what happened there soon enough. And some of you went into the bathroom with the razor and the blood and prayed. 

_We did not pray._

Under the influence of the Nightmare, I cut my wrists. It was like being a passenger in my own body, which is _terrifying_. And common, apparently. I wasn’t in control. We could only watch in terror as we bled and bled and _bled_. 

And Stygian was _scared_. And he had never been scared before. All I had got was festering rage and unfathomable grief. 

Stygian may not have been Bruce Wayne. He may not be all that much like me. But Thomas and Martha Wayne were _our_ parents, and he grieved for them as much as I did. That was something we would always share, and that was what enabled us to connect. 

Alfred found us. And we can’t imagine what that was like for him. Almost as terrifying as we found the Nightmare, no doubt. 

Almost the entire time I was in the hospital and then the Psych ward, I was completely aware. The Nightmare didn’t show up (and that terrified me more than _anything_ in my life, even now), and Stygian wasn’t anywhere. I just felt empty, and strung-out, and ready to bolt because I thought I was _losing my goddamn mind._

And then I found out that I wasn’t going crazy. And man, that was the _best_ goddamn news we ever received. 

Alfred saw Stygian for the first time. He told me that we woke up, looked around, and he could tell. I am _convinced_ that Alfred is a mind-reader. 

Stygian didn’t talk. He wrote down things on a notepad. As it turns out, that was very informative. He likes animals, music, chocolate, the color green, and drawing. Personally, mine’s blue, always has been, but there you go. But when Alfred heard that last bit, he suggested that Stygian draw how he saw himself. 

And, to quote Alfred, that was an _adventure_. 

So it turns out that Stygian can draw with the best of ‘em. Outside of police sketches, I might be able to draw a stick figure with a mustache and call it Alfred, and that’s pretty much it. But Stygian. God _damn_ , can he draw. Two hours, Alfred said, shading and erasing and sketching. He has the end result framed. 

It was me, a kid, standing, with a dark shadow draped all around me, in the outline of a vaguely humanoid shape. Tall and with striking eyes that stood out. 

Alfred was Not Happy that he didn’t have a name. So he started suggesting names. It turns out, Alfred has a flair for the dramatics. Who would’ve thought? So Pitch, Umbra, even Nocturne was suggested. Which we both find _hysterical_ , by the way. But Stygian liked Stygian, and so that was his name. 

When we were cleared, we all went home, me, Alfred, and the newly-dubbed Stygian. We got ice-cream on the way back. One of the best memories we have. 

I thought the Nightmare was dead. We thought it had crawled back to wherever it had crawled out from. Little did we know, alters can’t die. Alters can be mentally hurt, and alters can inflict damage on other alters, and they can fall back into the mindscape, or be integrated, or become dormant, or a million other things that can happen to them, but _they can’t die_. The Nightmare was still there. Inside our head. 

It was the fragment of an alter, yes, but we were _terrified_ of it. More than anything. And we did _not_ want it in our head. 

It waited another month, when the cuts were healed and Stygian and I were getting along. We left little notes for one another, questions, answers, comments. Alfred watched us with a careful eye and kept us from getting into too much trouble. 

One thing that is mostly agreed upon with other systems is that you need to take responsibility for the actions of alters. An alter might be mean or rude to someone, and while that alter might not have been _you_ specifically, you still apologize to that person. 

Stygian punched a kid at school.

Stygian, who held _all the rage of a burning sun_ , punched a kid and _broke his fucking nose_ in one well-placed hit. 

We were nine. 

This kid was _f_ _ifteen_. 

And Stygian knocked him on his ass with _one hit._

Stygian shared with me the memory of what had happened. Shared memories happen during dreams, usually, because we both can see them. 

Man, I wanted to punch the kid myself. 

Let’s get one thing straight. _Anyone_ can be mentally ill. It doesn’t matter if they’re male or female or nonbinary or any ethnicity or any age. People who act happy can be depressed. People who aren’t always super energetic can have ADHD or ADD. And people who have lots of money can sure as _hell_ have a mental illness. 

You can’t _buy_ your way out of trauma. Trauma doesn’t give a rat’s ass about who or what you are. Trauma just _is_. And you have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and move forward. Money doesn’t change that. And it’s awful that some people don’t get that. 

What’s worse is how stigmatized it is. _Especially_ in a city like Gotham. And it can be positive or negative, and still be wrong. 

We’ve had some people say that they wish that they had DID, that it would be incredible to have a friend inside their head all the time. Trust us. You don’t. They’re not always friends. I mean, Stygian is great now, but for the first few months? I wanted to be _normal_. And the Nightmare… God, I never want to talk about it again. 

It’s not worth the pain. It’s just _not_. 

The teachers at the school had been a little leery of me. We (that is, me and Stygian) had a deal cut, threshed out over Sticky Notes. I would stay in control at school and share the memories with him at night. He enjoyed seeing the world through my eyes. Later on, he would be able to watch it like a movie as it was happening, and vice-versa. I believe that’s called co-consciousness, and it’s really cool.

But Stygian sometimes hopped in when things were bothering me. He would always tell me in Sticky Note after it happened, and if we were just a little quieter in class than usual, that was fine. 

But that kid. He pissed Stygian _off_. 

It was after that moment that I realized that the system’s dynamic had shifted. Stygian was now a protector. 

And by fucking _God_ , he was going to protect. 

He was still angry, still hurting. But he had a support structure now, now that I and Alfred were properly aware of him. 

So Alfred showed up to a mother wailing about her _poor baby_ and how that _little freak of a Wayne had so **ruthlessly** attacked him, he was a **monster** , how **dare** they let him into this school-_

And me, confused as hell, flickering between Stygian and not, while he frantically scribbled on pieces of paper to explain what had happened. Of course, he was also getting angry at the mother, because she was doing the _Big No’s_ of calling us crazy and a monster. 

Stygian can, in fact, speak. He doesn’t like to, but he can. And _boy howdy_ , did he give her a dressing down. He also showed me that and I think I might’ve cried, if you can cry in dreams. 

We got suspended, but it was chocolate milkshakes for all that night. 

And that would also be another one of my best memories, if what had happened that night didn’t happen. 

When I say that it _hurts_ to have your trauma torn at, invalidated, I really mean it. It mentally wounds the alter, because it’s like saying that your existence is a mistake. An _abomination_. Stygian might’ve had his head held up high, but he was hurting. 

The Nightmare saw an opportunity and struck. 

Except, the Nightmare made one crucial mistake. When Stygian was hurting, he hurt us. But now, all he would do was turn his pain on himself. I didn’t want that, but I didn’t know how to stop him. 

The Nightmare was expecting him to be weak, like I was. If it had gone after _me_ , I don’t think I would be the one telling you this story. But the Nightmare decided to go after the protector first, so I would be alone. 

All the Nightmare did was give Stygian a target. 

When it showed up, I ran. We were in a dreamscape, a lucid dream. We had been able to lucid dream before. Our dad taught us, and thank God for that. But the Nightmare didn’t know to prevent us from undoing the changes that it wanted to make, and so it wanted to pull us into, well, a _nightmare_ , where we would be powerless. 

I found Stygian, and told him what was happening. And as soon as it showed its ugly face, Stygian _fucking went at it._

Stygian’s appearance in our mind is very similar to how Batman melts from the shadows. A solid black mass, intimidating, but not terrifying. Someone you trust when you get to know them. 

The Nightmare looked like how the Joker’s laugh feels. Paralyzing terror, and not much else. 

Stygian fought like something _wild_. He was roaring, almost, like a bear on steroids or a dragon. There was none of the finesse of the punch earlier, only clawing terror and burning rage. I watched, horrified. 

Stygian fucking _tore that thing to shreds_. And then lit them on _fire_. 

All of it was imagery that he could use in the lucid dream. It wasn’t really dead. Just badly injured. And Stygian had sent it off with its tail between its legs, and he promised that it wouldn’t be back. 

That had been the most violent Stygian had ever been. 

And I wasn’t scared of him. 

For maybe the first time since the alleyway, I got a full night’s sleep. Alfred didn’t know what had happened. He still doesn’t. And we don’t _ever_ plan on telling him what happened that night. 

As we grew older, Stygian and I got better at communicating. He also got better at controlling his temper, even though he _seethed_ when I apologized to the kid he had knocked out. We learned about what we were. There were other systems out there, with far more alters than us. We met with them, we shared stories. We learned new ways to talk. 

There were always people who discounted us, who misunderstood us, who tore us down either knowingly or unknowingly. We never knew what was worse. People who seemingly lied (I never wanted to discount them, Stygian doubted their words), who spread fear and misinformation. We bore that together and came out stronger for it. 

An interesting note is that as my handwriting changed, so did Stygian’s. My handwriting became neat and blocky, while his looked more and more like our father’s elegant scrawl. 

When we were about fifteen years old, Stygian started acting strange. Alfred reported us getting up at precisely midnight, going downstairs, then coming back up some time later. Stygian was suspiciously silent on the matter and I decided to trust him. Until I logged on the computer and found out that he had been searching for everything to do with the Wayne murders. 

We meditated. Nothing like what we all do, just beginning. But it narrowed the chasm between conscious and unconscious and it allowed me to confront Stygian. I asked him what the _hell_ he thought he was doing. He said that he’d explain it all in a day or two. And a day or two later, I got a notebook filled with Stygian’s handwriting. 

_Fact 1 - Martha Wayne’s pearls were never recovered_

_Fact 2 - Pearl necklaces can stain_

_Fact 3 - Blood_

_Fact 4 - With the police on the hunt, whoever had those pearls would want to fence them quickly; however, you can’t easily fence bloodstained pearls, because they’re clearly involved in a crime, and still blazing hot_

_Fact 5 - Joseph “Joe Chill” Morgan Chillton had a set of pearls cleaned a day after the murders_

_Fact 6 - Joseph “Joe Chill” Morgan Chillton did not have the money for the quality of the pearl necklace that was cleaned_

_Fact 7 - Neither Chillton nor the jeweler that cleaned the pearls has a clean rap sheet; Chillton, for mugging/armed robbery, and the jeweler for possession of stolen items_

_Fact 8 - Chillton owns the same type of gun used in the mugging; said gun went missing shortly after_

_Fact 9 - Chillton does not have an alibi for the night of the murders_

_Fact 10 - James Gordon is not aware of Facts 1 - 9_

_Bruce should not know about this until the time is right. Neither should Alfred, as this will only upset him - avoid at all costs_

_James Gordon, and potentially Harvey Bullock, are the only two GCPD members to be trusted with this. When Bruce knows, call Gordon. Everything should be in order._

~~_(I’m sorry)_ ~~

We called James Gordon. 

He looked over everything, me still sitting in stunned silence. Alfred was stunned. And Stygian wouldn’t show me how he figured all of this out. But there it was. Everything to get a warrant for the arrest of Joseph Morgan Chillton.

Except-

Except, that’s not how it happened. Joseph Morgan Chillton did not get a warrant for his arrest. The whole GCPD _reeked_ of a coverup. And Stygian was just as mad as James Gordon. 

We, together, thought of the idea of Batman. Stygian wanted _justice_ , he wanted _revenge_ , and I wanted Gotham to be _safe_. I wanted people like Chill to be put away behind bars. We cobbled together memories and half-remembered glimpses of the Nightmare to put together the Suit. 

And then we left Gotham. 

And we became the _Bat_.

Bruce Wayne and Stygian returned as well. And with the differences in the regular time that we had, there was no way we were going to be Brucie Wayne. We run Wayne Enterprises. We are advocates for mental health and the reform of Arkham Asylum. 

We’ve had people ask us why we didn’t go through reintegration therapy. The simple answer is, we don’t have to. Our system is functioning well, the Nightmare hasn’t shown itself for more than a decade, and I communicate with Stygian and vice versa on a regular basis.

Why fix something that isn’t broken? We’re different, yes, but we’re not broken. 

Things are good. 

But I worry. 

What if we slip up? What if the Nightmare comes back? What if something happens and another alter appears? 

We can’t control that. And it scares us. 

The first truth of Batman may be that we’re never alone. 

But the second truth is that we’re _scared_. 

And we live with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I really like the Council of Nocturne and its members?


	18. The Second Truth Of Batman (Council Of Nocturne Stories) Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Bruce Wayne and meta powers and Amanda Waller who is more ruthless than the Bat. 
> 
> That is bad. 
> 
> Very bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: torture and general panicking - please be careful
> 
> Oof over five thousand words my fingers are cramping 
> 
> Enjoy and make my pain worth it!

It started in that alleyway. For us, I guess everything does, doesn't it. I know some of us will say that all of us have our own unique trauma, but let's just say that everything happened right as planned. There was nothing special. That kinda hurts to say, but it's true. That's far from the point, though. 

Everything happened as usual, until it didn't. 

Imagine my surprise when the darkness didn't converge on you. Imagine my surprise when I found out that you handcrafted our weapons. Imagine my surprise when you couldn't literally sink into the shadows. Imagine my surprise when I found out that I was what you call a meta. 

Powers of darkness, based on my emotions. Fun, huh? I can literally make weapons from my pain. I could use the shadows to practically teleport across the city. I can form armor in the blink of an eye. 

I never tried to hide it, was the thing. People remarked that I was always a little too pale, that the shadows always acted strangely around me. I just kinda waved it away. I never really denied it. I think that was what got me, in the end. 

There was always this baseline rage in me. The roar that this wasn't right, that this wasn't justice, that this was wrong. It was always on a nice simmer in the back of my head. I could always summon my armor from that. 

The angrier I got, the more terrifying I looked. Spikes would grow, the cape would flare, the cowl would make me look like a demon. The varying descriptions helped keep everyone off of my tail. They tried to figure out what the armor was made of. They called it a cape. I called it pain. They called it a cowl. I called it rage. They called it Kevlar. I called it grief. 

You know what the worst thing is? That my powers only work with negative emotions. There's no glittering robe for happiness, no gleaming trinket for calm. There's only armor and weapons. 

Like I said, I never kept it hidden. The week before, I stood in the rubble of one particularly nasty fight and I tore off the cowl. The thing about the armor is, if I take it off, it dissolves into shadow. So there I was, darkness dripping from my hands, bare-faced and probably looking like I was about to kill someone. The way everyone backed the fuck up and went a little pale made me think so, anyway. 

I willingly took that cowl off, let them see the man behind the monster, as I stood in the ashes. This was in broad daylight, mind you. Civilians were everywhere. I think a couple of news crews were out there, too. People saw me. And I told them that they had nothing to fear from me, that they never did. The ones who were on my shit-list were all unconscious. 

So, uh. I walked away, after that. I let the armor dissolve, and I walked back to my board meeting. Or, what was left of my board meeting. It was over pretty quick. 

Nothing happened after that fight. I can't even remember who I was fighting. Bane? Killer Croc? One of the big ones, if a collapsed building was involved. But everyone laid low. No other fights. Not even the Riddler showed his face. It was unnerving. What was even more unnerving was how people treated me. 

I know most of you go with the billionaire idiot route. But with how easily everything came to me, I was able to afford a more active role in the company. People were scared of me, I think. Or at the very least, intimidated. Oliver Queen called me on the phone a day after and called me a bastard, then hung up. Lex Luthor also called me. I called him a bastard and then hung up. 

But uh. I wouldn't be here if that was the end of it. 

See, the thing with metas in my world is that they needed to be registered. Everyone knew about the Flashes that way. But Central city loved them, so everything was fine with that. If a meta refuses to be registered, then they essentially give up their rights. But being registered as a meta also means that you get put on the government's Rolodex of WMDs to point at a country and set off. Like the Suicide Squad, but less, y'know, ethical. The metas weren't getting anything out of it, after all. 

You needed to follow every order you were given, or you would be arrested for treason. And I mean every order. If you were told to kill someone, you killed them. If you were told to not save a bus load of children, you let them be. And of course, we all have this huge problem with authority and taking orders. 

I refused. I thought that they couldn't touch Bruce Wayne. I thought that I would be safe. I told them that they could shove their Rolodex where the sun don't shine and everyone already knew I was a metahuman, so what was the point of documenting it when I could just prove it if need be?

Amanda Waller is a sick woman. At least, in my universe she is. In some other universes, she's just a bitch. But in mine, she's completely sick. ARGUS was in her command. I practically dared them to do something. I was Icarus. And I flew too close to the sun. Actually, scratch that. That implies that it was an accident. No. The only way I would be Icarus is if Icarus flew straight at the sun and played a game of Chicken with it.

They knocked at my door. Alfred opened it. They shot him. Nothing serious, but I heard from him that it was apparently touch-and-go for a while there. 

I came running at the gunshot.

You wanna know what they said?

"Bruce Thomas Wayne Batman," they said, like it was some kind of fucking last name. "Due to violation of Metahuman Act 2 Section 4, you are now property of the Government of the United States of America."

And after that they said something about coming quietly, but I was a little more concerned with Alfred who was bleeding on the floor and Alfred was yelling at me to go and yelling at them that I hadn't done anything wrong, that I was a person, not a piece of furniture, and everything was happening so quick and everything had gone so far to hell that the cape was already on my shoulders and I could feel the cowl forming on my face. 

A nice feature that the cowl has is that it can change my voice if I'm feeling a large amount of rage or fear. I was feeling both, so when I yelled at them to leave or else, I sounded like a monster. It came out like a roar, Alfred told me. That I sounded inhumane, like some terrible beast. It reached the Narrows, that's how loud it was. There was a lot of broken windows. 

It made them pause, and that was all the time I needed to take them down. I lunged, and I don't think that I've ever fought as hard as I did. At the court hearing, one of the men that attacked me described it like trying to fight twenty men at once. It was at least seven against one, and they were severely outnumbered. 

Until their backup arrived. And suddenly it was fifty against one and as angry as I can be, no one could keep up the level of rage I was using for very long. 

They injected me with something. It made me weak. Docile, they said. Like I was some kind of animal. They liked comparing me to an animal. They put those meta cuffs on my and the shadows returned to normal. I was just some guy in regular clothes. There were no weapons. There was no armor. For once, there were no shadows to hide in. 

The worst part was the van ride. They had hit me in the head, as if the drugs weren't enough. I wasn't unconscious. They talked to me too much for that. It was more like they insulted me. They poked fun at my parents' murder, my powers, Gotham. I wanted to kill them. I really did. But I was trapped. 

About halfway there, I regained use of my mouth and started using my deductive mind to make some rather unpleasant revelations. One man had a daughter sick with cancer. I told him that it was such a shame, I was hosting a charity ball for it next week. Another was cheating on his wife, I asked him if she had sent the divorce papers yet. 

They were angry. Man, were they angry. But it was worth it. 

They brought me to some ARGUS facility out in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. My security level was Alpha Priority. I told one I was flattered, and he backhanded me. 

They never called me by my name. They just called me Bat. Sometimes, they called me Animal, like they just couldn't choose which horrible thing I was. I told them I preferred Screech Owl, and they electrocuted me. 

It took them over a week to get me to shut up. Everything they did, I had a witty retort for. They had to almost kill me to get me to shut my damn mouth. I didn't care. As long as it pissed them off, I was game. 

It took them another week to finish up with the official experiments. Then they just had fun with me. They burned me, never shut off the lights, broke my bones, over and over and over. I've seen my heart beating in my chest. Waller sanctioned it all. She offered me a deal. She would make it stop if I joined her little Suicide Squad. 

I spat in her eyes. There was blood in it. Every time she came to visit my cell, I tried to hurt her in some way. My crowning moment was when I bit her hand. I tasted blood, and hung on while she shrieked and screamed bloody murder and I thought pit bull thoughts. I broke bones before they put enough drugs in me to kill a male African bull elephant.

I remember making threats. Serious ones. I knew everything about her, medical history, bank accounts, the works. She was a threat. It was standard to learn everything I could about a threat so I would be able to neutralize it. 

I listed her credit card numbers, her SSN. I told her where her children lived and said that my allies would do what she did to me to them tenfold. Because, let's face it, some of us are more inclined to murder. 

I told her that even though Clark's a good person, I had it on very good authority that one bad day was all it took to push someone over the edge. I told her how in other worlds, Superman had razed the Earth, had turned entire cities into ash. I told her about Laughs. 

I know that's taboo, but it was the worst thing I could think of, or rather, the best response to her claiming that I could never kill. The correct answer is that I would never kill. Laughs is what happens when we do. 

The look on her face was beautiful. I saw fear. True, pure, terror, at what I could do if all the right circumstances lined up perfectly. I mean, she had me vivisected an hour later, but still. 

It was one more week before Clark tore into the building, brick by fucking brick, to break me out. Thanks to Cyborg, the world had seen my torment at the hands of Waller, and the world had thrown up an uproar. Waller was to be arrested and tried for something. Treason or torture. Whatever. 

But Clark wasn't the one to cause the whole building to go up in flames. No. That was me. 

When he found me, the first thing he did was tear off the collar and cuffs that prevented me from using my powers. I could feel the shadows again. And then he hugged me, ever so considerate of the fact that I had very crushable ribs. And I felt nothing. At all. 

What kind of friend am I who doesn't feel anything at the sight of someone who just busted you out of a living hell?

I don't know. I was almost dead. But I shoved his well-meaning and far too close arms away from me and snarled that I would be walking out of here under my own damn power, the there was little he could do to stop me. 

The shadows were all too eager to help. They sensed my rage, my pain, and they built me back up. They had called me Bat. The had called me an animal. So I became one. 

Clark told me later that I had literal wings. He told me that my voice echoed. Clark told me that he had been afraid. 

They should all be. 

I don't remember much. But I remember the screams, the shadows, and the fire. I was screaming, and it was a literal ting that I had to get out of my chest. The shadows were alive to me, more than ever, and they took a discernable glee in ripping through walls and Waller's armored forces. The fire was hotter than you could ever imagine. Clark told me later that the flames were blue. He told me that the smoke made me look massive. 

Clark, if I wasn't hallucinating at the time, was just as terrifying. His cape was bloody and torn and burnt, and his eyes were burning red. I've never seen him look so angry before. Whoever I left behind that could still fight, he took care of. 

I know, really, I do, that he's basically a god, compared to us. That most of us get by on brains and spite and legend. I know, that if we're loose cannons, he's a WMD in freefall. 

But you shouldn't write off what we're capable of. 

I collapsed, after. I fell in a puddle of darkness and blood and piss and shit and everything that I had been wallowing in for the past three weeks. There were helicopters circling like vultures. Everyone knew. Everyone. 

I just...

It's hard, alright? It's hard, walking the fine lines that we do. Four weeks earlier, I was tired and pissed off and it lent me this feeling that I could take on the world, dammit, no matter what. I had already done it a few dozen times before, what was another couple fights to the death?

But this time, it was everyone. There was no hiding this time. I couldn't deny it, I couldn't run. You know, it's stupid, almost. I thought that I could just brush this off like anything else. Why wouldn't I be able to? 

I woke up strapped down in a hospital, and I got my answer pretty damn quick. The lights shattered, the power went out in my wing, and even though the backup generators kicked in eight seconds later, it must've been pretty damn scary for people who had loved ones on life support. I was thrashing like something wild, trying to get out. I was screaming something awful, too. I broke the restraints pretty easily, and was fighting my way down the hall. My condition had improved slightly. Instead of almost dead, I was only half-dead. 

I may have broken a few windows. I was using the broken glass from the windows and mirrors and light bulbs like knives. The shadows picked them up and I looked like a very sparkly hedgehog bat from the security footage. They tried to sedate me, but I was having exactly none of that and I threw a couple of orderlies into a doctor. 

I made it out of the hall. I lost them in the confusion, and so I hid in the vents. An old one, but good. And, even better, I found some of my cloths so I wouldn't be running around in some drafty hospital gown. And they were nondescript. Alfred, no doubt. Jeans, jacket. I would be one of Gotham's millions of regular people. Nope, no bat vigilante here, folks. 

It was all instinct after that. It was patrol routes all the way through. I looked for hiding places that I hadn't used in literal decades. Foxholes that not even Dick knew about. From what I heard, they asked everyone to turn the city inside out looking for me. They called Clark and Diana and Selina, even the Teen Titans. With the exception of Selina, none were successful. Selina was maybe five feet away from me when I bolted, too high on pain meds and adrenaline to realize who or what I was running from.

I should’ve had the advantage. I had years of experience in Gotham, probably only outmatched in that regard by Selina. I had countless boltholes that not even Alfred knew about. I didn’t have any tech on me, so Oracle couldn’t track me. No one had any clue what I looked like at this point (neither did I, was the sun setting or was I just in my own maelstrom of darkness?). I was in the center of Gotham, with millions of heartbeats and sirens and horns, so there was no way Superman could pick me out. 

The only way I could be found is if I wanted to be found. 

And trust me, I didn’t. 

But as the sun started to set for real, the panicked reaction of _run run run_ faded. I took stock of what was around me. Some derelict old building in the Narrows, no doubt. Life shivering in the form of rats and insects. Civilian clothing, nothing in the pockets. And the grand injury count of _fuck everything hurts._

 _Yes, Wayne. Run from the hospital and the nice pain meds. Couldn’t even have grabbed a Tylenol on the way out, could you?_

This, I’ll admit, was not my finest moment. 

Waller had done a number on me. I was starved, beaten, barely healed. And her men would probably be combing the city along with my allies, searching for the moron that had destroyed her multi-million dollar facility in a fit of unholy rage. I was a sitting duck. I needed to move. 

Lucky for me, I had one more advantage. 

The night was mine. And while the A.R.G.U.S members weren’t exactly wearing Day-Glo orange, they had a foul reputation in Gotham, one that I did nothing to improve. And after Cyborg and Oracle’s simply brilliant work, Gotham’s infamous temper would come into play. If the kids in the Narrows are brave enough to steal the fucking Batmobile’s tires, mugging a uniformed A.R.G.U.S. soldier would be a damn cakewalk. 

Jason. How was he doing? Probably out of Gotham with the Outlaws, but he would’ve seen it. 

…He would still probably shoot me if he found me here. _Better get a move on._

And I was just about to do that, I swear on my cape, when a helicopter searchlight brushed past my bolthole and neary caused me a _fucking heart attack._

I decided to walk on the streets with my hood down as far as possible. I had already snagged a change of clothes from one of my various hideaways that I had hit throughout the day. Whatever description they were giving of me wouldn’t match. 

And boy, were they giving descriptions of me. 

“The search is on for Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s very own billionaire and recently revealed as the meta-human Batman,” one news anchor was saying. She must’ve been in for someone, I didn’t recognize her. “Wayne had been taken into custody for violating Metahuman Act 2, Section 4, one of the most controversial parts of the bill. Allies had discovered troubling news of what was going on behind the top-security holding site that Wayne was being kept at, and Superman himself broke into the facility to free Wayne. Helicopter footage of the scene shows what can only be hoped for as the full extent of Wayne’s powers, used as a fear tactic while wearing Batman’s cowl, wreaking havoc on Amanda Waller’s forces.”

I looked up briefly at the large glowing billboard. It was worse than I thought. Smoking wreckage. Shattered glass. Broken concrete. And at the center of it all, a roaring behemoth of shadow, bat-like wings arched over its back in a fearsome display. 

“Amazingly, there were no fatalities,” the news anchor continued. “Keeping in line with the Dark Knight’s strict moral code.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. “Despite this, quite frankly, impressive show of power, Wayne had suffered grievous injuries during his imprisonment. He showed signs of starvation, dehydration, electrocution, and torture. Video surveillance shows Wayne’s stout defiance in face of such odds. Warning: these images and words are graphic, and some may find them disturbing. Viewer discretion is heavily advised.”

I looked away. There will be a time where I’ll be able to look at what they did to me. But for now, experiencing it was bad enough. 

“Take my deal, and all of this will stop,” Waller’s voice echoed. I shut my eyes tighter. I was in Gotham, watching a billboard, she wasn’t here. Smell the cigarette smoke, hear the sirens, feel the breeze from passing cars. You’re not there. 

“Join your little Suicide Squad?” a tinny, raspy, hoarse voice that sounded somewhat like me asked. A grim smile played on my features. Oh, I remembered this. 

“And all of this will end,” Waller confirmed. She didn’t specify what “this” was. She didn’t have to. 

A dry, croaking laugh that sounded like a death rattle. “Oh, I have my answer for you,” not-me said. 

I could see it in my mind’s eye, waller leaning forward, predator waiting for her prey that was just about to fall into her grasp. “And?”

I opened my eyes resolutely. And kept them open. I stared into the face of the man on screen - was that really me?

Face black and blue, streaked with dried blood. Naked from the waist up, more bruises and burn marks littering his torso. A long, savage cut from the top of his chest to his navel, still oozing blood. Unkempt hair, searing blue eyes. This was a man who looked like he fought through Hell itself. I didn’t recognize him.

My mouth silently formed the words as they boomed from the screen. I had gathered up every last ounce of strength to roar them at her. 

“ _Go to hell, you fucking bitch!_ ” And then the man spat at her, blood and spit mixing to form a nastly fluid that sailed directly in her face. 

“You’ll _regret_ that,” she snarled on screen, heels clicking away. 

The screen cut back to the news anchor, her face having paled considerably. 

“As you can see,” she said, her voice level but her hands shaking. “The Bat of Gotham prevailed. He was admitted into Gotham General Hospital two days ago in critical but stable condition and regained consciousness this morning. Unfortunately, Wayne fled the hospital and was outside the building not five minutes later. Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Teen Titans have all been confirmed as searching for him, and rumored to have been sighted are Catwoman, Huntress, and Nightwing, yet Wayne has remained elusive, a testament to his training. His family has a message for him. They ask that he returns of his own free will and accepts their help. They assure him that he is safe.”

Considering I probably took forty years off of their lives when I pulled the stunt that I did, that was surprisingly civil. They didn’t even threaten to have Superman come and drag me back by my cape. Which they had done before. And followed through on. 

“And from all of Gotham, Mr, Wayne,” said the news anchor. “Thank you.” 

The billboard went back to an advertisement for soda and I kept walking, keeping my head down.

 _Probably not all of Gotham,_ I thought. _Lucius Fox and the board of directors probably had a fit. I’d be surprised if I still have my company._ How to play this? I could just head back to the hospital. I’d rather not be strapped down again, though. The Manor? Maybe, but from the looks of things, it appeared as if a swarm of reporters had set up camp there. 

I looked into the sky, the light pollution making the stars all but invisible. But that wasn’t the only thing making the night sky hard to see. A thick layer of clouds. My gaze drifted over to the GCPD building. The Bat-Signal was blazing with life, the familiar spotlight clear as day. 

I knew what I was going to do. 

James Gordon probably wouldn’t like it.

* * *

He was on the roof, like nothing had ever changed. Alone as ever. I dropped down from the top of the stairwell exit, athletic shoes not making as nearly as satisfying a crunch of gravel as heavy-soled armored boots would. 

Damn, I had missed being Batman. 

“Commissioner,” I barked in Batman’s _I-Eat-Gravel-And-Gargle-Nails_ tones. “What’ve we got?”

“Batman, thank God,” Jim said, starting to turn around. “Wayne’s missing and - hey, wait just one _fucking minute-_ ”

For the first time in what felt like _years_ I smiled. 

“You sneaky, conniving-” he sputtered while I gave him a little shit-eating smile. 

“Wait, you’re injured,” he said. “What am I doing? You need to get to the hosp-”

“No,” I said. “You have a first aid kit, right? I’ll just use that.”

“Pennyworth will kill me,” he said. 

“Not if Superman gets to you first.”

His gulp was audible. 

“Commissioner, have you really forgotten my sparkling sense of humor?” I asked in a monotone. “I’m hurt.”

“Those words did _not_ just come out of your mouth-”

“Don’t make me laugh, I’m pretty sure my ribs are broken,” I said, taking a few deep breaths and feeling them ache in response. “Fractured. Two on the left, three on the right.”

He stared at me like I had grown a third head. I had done this before as Batman, giving him a list of injuries after say, an explosion. I suppose this was just a shock. I do admit, it did feel really strange to not have half my face covered. 

“You know that how?” he asked calmly. 

I shrugged, then winced. Yep, pain meds first. “Practice.” Familiar with the layout from the ventilation surveillance I did, I started down the stairwell. 

“And _how_ did you get up here?” he asked, also very calmly, very reasonably. 

“I climbed,” I said, making a left.

“Climbed,” he repeated. 

“I’ve done more with worse,” I said. “The League once had me run ten miles in 120 degree-plus weather.”

“The _Justice League_?” he asked. 

“Of assassins,” I corrected, finding the storage closet.

“Of course,” he said faintly. 

“You should probably go sit down,” I said, taking out the First Aid kit. My stitches had held mostly. But the smaller scratches had stung like hell, and my ribs weren’t doing me any favors. 

_Sweet, sweet ibuprofen, thank the Lord that you exist._

About a billion little Band-Aid wrappers, an icepack, and some glorious ibuprofen later, I was feeling almost human. Now, if I could just have some coffee and twelve hours of sleep, I’d be golden. 

Well, not really. 

But coffee and sleep were sounding almost as good as the ibuprofen was. And now, I realize how contradictory the two things are. Caffeine does not equal sleep. 

As I was cleaning up the area, I heard a very familiar voice. What was _unfamiliar_ was that this voice was shouting at the very top of their lungs at Jim. 

And sweet Jesus Christ, that was Alfred and Clark tag-teaming Gordon, who very much looked like he wanted to hide. As did I, when I was bum-rushed by about a dozen people. All of them intent on hugging me, which isn’t exactly a _bad_ thing, but it definitely is when you have _five fucking fractured ribs._

And it was the _best damn group hug_ I’ve ever had. 

“I swear to fucking _God_ , if you do that again-” Dick started.

“ _Ribs-_ ” I wheezed. 

“Oh, right, hospital-”

“I’m not getting strapped to a bed again,” I said. “I’m going to go home, and I’m going to sleep for twelve fucking hours, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll pass out, right now, I swear to God-”

“B, you’re swaying-”

“I got him.” A large blur of blue and red. Oh. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Fuck off, farmboy,” I said, trying to push him off. It probably would’ve worked, had I not been like roadkill warmed over. 

As it turns out, I had a concussion as well. So that was fun. 

But they only found out about that after I had woken up, which was about thirty-six hours from when I passed out in the GCPD, like the pillar of strength and badassery that I am.

They caught Waller, with help from the Suicide Squad. I think they probably enjoyed it way too much, to hunt down the woman that put bombs in their heads. I wasn’t exactly at fighting weight yet, but I had been cleared for civilian work. And that had included testifying against Waller. And in doing so, I found out that the Batman Beyond Project had been put into effect. So. Potentially, I might have to deal with that in the near future. 

Lucius just about spat out his drink when I walked into Wayne Enterprises. It’s doing better than ever, now. We’re well into the billions at this point and Lexcorp has been left in the dust, which gives my little vindictive heart joy. 

But. As great as everything is… I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Things are good. Better than good, they’re amazing. 

I still have nightmares. I see that beaten and bloody man they call a hero, and I think _that’s not me._ And then that night, I’ll have nightmares about the day Waller decided to find how many of my finger bones would break before I screamed. 

It’s fourteen. Just over half. 

I’ve been through some shit. We all have. But this? This was personal. This was horrifying. This was brutal. And it scarred me in a way that is much more than just superficial, though I have plenty more of those too. 

I see all my allies, my entire family who came to kick ass on the hunt for Waller, and I’m ecstatic and terrified. Ecstatic, because I know they’ll have my back, no matter what, and terrified, because Waller knows about their loyalty. 

Waller knows about Terry. And they’re all in danger from her, even when she’s locked away. And I’m terrified. 

The first truth of Batman may be that we’re never alone. 

But the second truth is that we’re _scared_. 

And we live with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guy like this? I'm kinda fleshing out the roster for the Council of Nocturne. If the format confuses and my one, think of like a group therapy session and these guys are telling their stories.


	19. The Second Truth Of Batman (Council of Nocturne Stories) Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is Bruce Wayne, and there is the dead of Gotham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably not going to post anything for the next week or two. I'm headed on a proper vacation, and I'll get a tan if it kills me. 
> 
> (It'll probably kill me.) 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Zsasz is in this one, and he's not playing nice. Murder, blood, fatal injury descriptions (not very graphic, but there)
> 
> I know that doesn't sound pleasant at all, but enjoy (?)

It started in the alleyway. Everything does. I just didn't know it. None of us did, really. That Gotham would be changed forever, no matter who got hit. 

So, my name in the field is Silver. Because of my eyes, clearly. It's funny, the whole thing. Almost every single one of us has blue eyes. And then there are mine. A bright, jarring, _holy-fuck-that's-not-normal_ color. 

And its because of them, and my "gift," that I am one of the youngest members of the Council. 

I'm sixteen. I've been a member since thirteen.

Ever since my eyes changed. 

Ever since my life became a bad parody of ParaNorman. 

I don't know what you call what I can do. Psychic, I guess, but I don't have the telepathic skills of Martian Manhunter. I know things about people that I shouldn't know. I can walk up to someone and tell them that their mother's maiden name is Sarah Hatfield. I can tell how old someone is, down to the exact day. I know when people are lying. And if they lie enough, I can tell the exact truth. 

I suppose I also have the skills of a medium. I can look at a body and tell you who they were and how they died. That doesn't sound like much, but if they had a heart attack or a stroke or were poisoned, sometimes that's not nearly as obvious as a gunshot to the head. 

I've had people accuse me of lying. And then I tell them that their grandfather Larry died of a heart attack when they were seven. 

That's called a cold reading. In my case, its fucking subzero. I don't even know their names. 

Fake psychics use hot readings. They lead the client on with little bits of information. They let you fill in the blanks. 

"Oh, I'm getting an L name, like - like a nickname, or something? Male? Lou, or, or - Lenny?"

"My grandfather went by Larry!"

"That's it! And - and I'm getting pain, or an illness, with the chest?"

(Just so you know, heart disease and things like it is the leading cause of death in the United States. What the medium would say also covers lung diseases as well.)

"He died of a heart attack!"

You give them all the information they need. I walk up and shove it in your face. It tends to unnerve people, especially when they see that the silver eyes aren't just contacts, when it's not just a trick of the light. 

Alfred actually brought me to a doctor for that. He was rightfully concerned. Because one's eyes don't just shift color randomly. 

(It wasn't random. It never was.)

And, I mean, it kinda looked like I had some kind of heavy metal poisoning going on, too. If I cried anime tears, that's mercury poisoning, right there. But that's besides the point.  
  
As it turned out, I'm a medical mystery! Yay!

But. That night. In the alleyway. That's when the weird shit started to happen. 

Many of us don't get to see who did it. Who was responsible for the birth of the Bat. Who shattered our lives. Who changed Gotham forever.

Others, others see the fear, the _cowardice_ in his eyes, as he holds a shaking gun to our head to finish the job, only to realize that killing a child is _wrong_. 

_Newsflash_ , dipshit. Murdering said child's parents is wrong too.  
  
Some of us see the eyes burn into ours, sear into our memory with the horror of that night. Some of us find him, based on those eyes. 

I already found him. 

Joseph. Morgan. Chillton. 

That name echoes in my head. It was _screamed_ , the first noise of a world that was totally beyond our own.

I thought nothing of it, as that coward ran into the night, leaving me in pieces behind. 

I didn't remember it as I spoke to James Gordon. I didn't remember it as I stared, empty, at the funeral. I remembered it in my nightmares, dark places with echoing gunshots and screams and pearls hitting the ground while I watch helplessly as a child's life is torn to shreds in front of me. 

At eight, I hid from what I could do. 

At nine, I denied it. 

At ten, I ignored it. 

At eleven, my eyes started flickering silver, a ghostly ( _hah_ ) tinge, unnerving as footsteps in an empty house. 

At twelve, I heard the whispers. _Avenge me,_ one said. _Tell her,_ another murmured. _Find him_ , one pleaded. 

At twelve, I learned things. At twelve, I asked Lieutenant Gordon how the baby was doing. 

(He didn't know his wife was pregnant.)

At twelve, I stripped away the lies of one of the board members at WE. 

(The corruption ran deep and hidden and fresh, the hardest kind to find, and I pulled it up as easily as lifting a sheet of paper.)

(At seven, I went to board meetings with my father, and he laughed and joked with trustworthy men and women who respected him and everything to company stood for.)

(Five years can make such a difference.)

At twelve, I solved a murder.

(Marco Pernucio, I said, staring at a man on a newspaper. _Murdered,_ the headline screamed. _No leads,_ the article informed. _Possible link to the Wayne murders_ , shot out.)

( _Marco Pernucio_ , I said. _Age thirty four. Killed in a mugging gone wrong. Killed in an alleyway. Body dumped in a river. Police are looking in the wrong area._ )

(The article did not say his name, but the GCPD identified him shortly after it came out.)

(The article did not say his age, but the GCPD knew who he was.)

(The article did not say how he died, only that he was dead and found on a riverside.)

(But I knew.)

I asked James Gordon to come with me. I had freaky powers, not a death wish. 

And there it was. A treasure trove of evidence. A splash of blood there, a few signs of a struggle here. Blood matched with poor Marco. Fingerprints did not. 

Bullock was suspicious, as he is wont to be. 

"Last I checked," I said, "you needed means, motive, and opportunity for me to be the killer. My grandfather was an avid hunter. There is an extensive amount of guns in the Manor. And none of them match the murder weapon. If he was going to kill a _bear_ with a _handgun_ , he'd have used the .44 Magnum."

I do not use guns. I despise the things. But you bet your ass that Alfred would teach me gun safety.

"I did not know Pernucio. I looked at his picture in the article and that was the first time I had ever seen him. We had never crossed paths before. I live on the other side of town. He did not work for Wayne Enterprises. Wayne Enterprises doesn't even own the garage that he worked at. I did not know him before he was alive.

"I don't make a habit of going out. I was home at the time of the murder. Alfred can attest to that, as well as the gardener, who was showing me how to plant tulips."

A lovely woman. Alfred likes to tend to my mother's plants, but the grounds are huge. You'd be surprised at how much effort goes into the bushes at the gate. 

"I did not kill Pernucio," I said, as Gordon stared and Bullock went pale. 

(My eyes were glowing silver, Gordon told me later, in a quiet, hoarse kind of voice. My eyes were gleaming platinum, and it _scared_ him.)

"But I know who did," I said quietly. "And I know where they are."

( _Solved_ , the headlines sang with a wicked kind of delight, _solved, by the boy who is an unsolved case himself._ )

(And how I wanted to hiss and spit that I wasn't something that they could solve, that I was something else entirely, something rooted in the ancient bones of Gotham, buried with her dead. Silver eyes don't belong to little boys with normal mysteries.)

In that picture, my smile is brittle and sharp and gleaming, nothing like the sunny little boy who hung on his father's hands at business meetings, a stranger from the toddler looking curiously around the room behind his mother's skirts, too young to realize why all those people were there and fawning over him. 

In the picture, my eyes are no longer my father's, blue and clear and piercing and warm. They are silver and bright and strange, and they are full of something strong and made of steel. 

_Photoshop_ , some claim, until it is proved that the photo is unedited. _A trick of the light,_ they shrug instead, when my eyes are blue and clear in other photos later. _Wrong_ , some whisper when my eyes turn platinum for bare instances.

 _Beautiful_ , they crow, when one day I wake up and they never change back to blue. _Stunning_ , they praise, behind sly whispers of _how_ and _why_ and _strange_. 

_Exotic_ , people with wandering eyes said, and whenever I heard them speak, the acidic tingling of _lies_ and the feather brush of _secret_ flared to life.

(The Bat does not allow for such people to walk the streets freely.)

(Neither did I at the tender age of fourteen.)

At twelve, I gained the reputation of the Bat. Clever and quick and ruthless in pursuit. People often underestimate my willingness to run someone down. I clambered over rooftops and darted up ladders as if I had been doing it my entire life. It was freeing, oddly enough, the steady beat of running, the timed jumps. 

Rooftop parkour, which is essentially what we do on a nightly basis, mixed with martial arts, is illegal if you're trespassing. Trespassing includes if you break a lock or force entry, if you go there after not being told to, if there's a Private Property sign, or if you have to jump over a wall or fence to get to the place. So, I suppose it wasn't exactly trespassing. But I still think Gordon and the rest of the GCPD was a little chagrined that I, all of twelve years old, at the time, ran down a full-grown man and brought him down. I bet the man was annoyed too, but I don't care about him.  
  
While they didn't call me the World's Greatest Detective, I became the hidden ally to the GCPD. I hung out in the bullpen, listening to what I could, acting as a sounding board for theories. I offered advice, insight. I watched interrogations the way someone else might've watched TV. I learned what it felt like when someone was keeping a secret, when someone was lying.  
  
(Bullock warmed up up to me, actually. He was loud and brash, yes, but he didn't take shit from anyone and spoke frankly, and those were qualities I value. I wouldn't have been near half the crime scenes that I had if Bullock hadn't swooped in and proclaimed me as an intern.)

You know Victor Zsasz? Yeah, I thought you might have. He was running around Gotham right before I turned thirteen. I had started _seeing_ things, people, out of the corner of my eye that were never there when I turned to look at them head on. The voices that whispered started getting louder and louder until my head rang with them. I had headaches constantly. And all the whole, the GCPD shut me out, because, despite what I had done for them, despite what I had learned, I was still a kid. 

It wasn't until I called Gordon and told him that I knew a serial killer was on the loose did he listen to me. 

They hadn't told the public. They didn't want a mass panic. But they had few leads, and the murders were still happening.  
  
And I knew. 

The victims of Zsasz had not died peacefully. Incidentally, supernatural reports nearly doubled the month that Zsasz ran around. 

Incidentally, my migraine count nearly doubled that month as well. 

The victims didn't know Zsasz. Zsasz didn't bother to learn the names of his victims. He just viewed them all as zombies for him to set free, not knowing that he was only trapping them in this works, the world that they were not supposed to be in.  
  
It made things difficult. But not impossible.

The month that Zsasz was captured was the month that my eyes flickered blue for the very last time. 

It was the month that I joined the Council of Nocturne.

It was the month I turned thirteen. 

It was the month I saw _them_. 

Ghosts, people call them. Spirits, phantoms, demons, sometimes. 

Nah. I call them people. Imagine someone went and called you meatbag. You'd be pretty upset too.

They appeared as they had when they died, gaping wounds, bloody clothes. It's a wonder that I'm only slightly messed up. The ones that could speak told me their names, told me the pattern particular to the killer. 

The ones that couldn't _showed_ me. 

And that, partly, is why my eyes have not gone back to blue. A part is me is still there, lost in the terror of a dozen people as their lives ended by a madman's hand.

I got a description, piece by piece, of the man who was flooding Gotham with the dead. Pale skin, dead eyes with a mad spark dancing in them, and scars upon scars upon scars. A devil given flesh, a nightmare given form. To a twelve year old, it was fear incarnate.

And I wanted nothing more than to catch him before he could hurt anyone else. 

I had learned how to draw, from my parents originally, and then a kind police sketch artist who gave out lollipops later. I sketched, with people with open wounds and bloody clothes looking over my shoulder, crowded around me, correcting the eyes here, a scar there. 

Around this time, I spent most of my days in the GCPD building, parsing out garbled messages from people I wanted to help leave this world. It didn't help that I was terrified to go outside. With everything happening, it was like someone was constantly watching me, and I feared that the one who was staring hole into my back was also going to pull a knife on me. 

The victims also congregated there, a light cloud of unrest and fear. Why there were there, I could only guess. Maybe it was because of me, that they were following because they knew I could help them somehow. Maybe it was because the GCPD was a familiar place to them. Maybe it was because they thought that they were safer there, even though their killer had already taken their lives. I didn't know.

It was a week, a week of looking into the face of a murderer, a week of adjusting every last detail, a week of nearly sleepless nights and shaky days, when I finished it. 

The killer had a face. 

And soon, he had a name. 

I was sitting at a desk that was unofficially reserved for the _kid with spooky eyes_. Case files would be left on them, photos of people I had never seen before, photos of the dead. I did all I could, even if it was just a name or a place. 

(I had a file, too. The Wayne murders kicked it off, then the newspaper clipping, and then every case I had helped solve. It was a strangely good feeling, to know that there was proof of the good that I was doing.)

It was maybe an hour or so after I had given Gordon the drawing and he had given me the order to either eat a sandwich before Alfred killed him or go home and sleep for a solid eight hours. I chose the sandwich route. I was not going out of that place. Not when everything outside was charged with so much paranoia and fear that it resembled one of us dosed with fear toxin. 

A young girl, not older than I am now, with clothes torn and blood down her shirt walked up to the desk. She took my hand and she showed me how she died. 

Moonlight, metal, pain, blood. A pale man laughing, scars littered across skin like a horrific rendition of the night sky. Fear and something that tasted like copper choking screams. 

_Zsasz_ , I heard through all the horror. _Victor Zsasz._

He was getting sloppy. She had almost got away, hope rising as she bolted for the door, only for her to be caught once more.  
  
But she fought. She scratched and she screamed and she bit and she kicked. She went for his eyes, his hands. She left wounds that would scar over the tally marks, and for that, he made her death _slow_. 

She is the bravest person I have ever seen. 

I didn't know who this girl was, for once. I looked at her face, and I got nothing. But she knew who killed her. And she wanted him caught. For her and for all of his other victims. 

_Thank you,_ I thought to her. She nodded, stepped back, and I bolted up to find James Gordon. 

"Victor Zsasz," I practically shouted at him, all of twelve years old and exhausted and scared. 

He stared at me, then at the drawing, and then back to me. 

Glowing silver eyes give one credibility, I've found. 

"Are you sure?" he asked, dead serious. 

I nodded, trying to prevent him from seeing my shaking hands.  
  
I was going to go home. I was going to be as brave as that girl, and I was going sleep in my own damn bed. I called Alfred and told him as such, and I could hear him smiling. 

I feel guilty, now, for leaving him alone in Wayne Manor. How silent it must've been. 

I feel even worse for what happened next. 

(It wasn't my fault, they assure me, and I feel the acidic tingle of _lie_.)

Zsasz stalked his victims. He picked them out and learned what they do. He usually targets young women, but he's not very picky about who he kills, as long as he does kill them. 

I... 

There was a reason, why outside the GCPD building felt like someone was watching me.

Someone was. 

And they did have that knife. 

We all have our demons. 

Zsasz is mine. 

He took me to a warehouse. I knew where I was, but that wasn't much help when no one else did. 

The floor was covered in copper stains and the building was _full_ of his victims. Not the bodies. Those who had been in the GCPD building with me. Some I had never seen before. Others I recognized. All gathered around, fearful and bloody. 

And Zsasz was there. Knife in hand. Against my throat. And he was going to kill me. 

He said he wanted to free me, to release me. Just as my parents were free, and _family_ should be together, shouldn't they?

That was it for me. I didn't burst out fighting or break free of my bonds or anything that you would do. 

I stood up (carefully, slowly,) and looked him in the eye. And I told him what he had done. 

My eyes actually glow. This is how I found out. The warehouse was dark. As I spoke, it grew brighter and brighter. 

"You did free them, Zsasz," I said conversationally, like he didn't have a knife to my throat and there weren't people that he had killed and couldn't see around us and I wasn't tied up. 

He smiled, and god, that sight is seared into my memory. 

"I knew you would-"

"Listen to me," I interrupted. 

I think the only reason why he didn't kill me then and there was because I was mildly entertaining to him. 

"You freed them," I said. "By taking them from one prison and putting them into another. They're still here. And they're in terrible pain, chained up. Chains that _you_ put on them, Zsasz." 

I was shaking. Pain, rage, fear, I didn't know.

The girl who told me his name stepped out of the crowd and put an icy hand on my shoulder. She hissed a static-y string of curses at the man who killed her. 

"They're here," I said, silver eyes casting light over the walls, over the audience that had no shadow. "Because of what _you_ did. And let me tell you, Zsasz," I said, with something that sounded like a laugh as more and more of the ones that Zsasz killed came over to my side, fire lighting in their eyes and humming rage at their fingertips. 

Zsasz had _chained_ them here. It wasn't _enough_ for him to take them from the ones they loved too soon, oh no. They had to sit here and _watch_ while he claimed more and more lives unchecked. 

Let me tell you something about the dead. 

They can hold one hell of a grudge. 

Let me tell you something about the people in Gotham. 

They have one hell of a temper. 

"They're fucking _pissed_." 

I didn't do anything. I didn't have to. The first of them, a man with glasses and a beard and two slit wrists charged through Zsasz, making him stumble back and clutch at his wrists. The next, a woman with a sloppy bun and a bloody white shirt was next, and he gasped as he choked on the feeling of blood in his throat.  
  
Over and over, his victims took revenge. Everything he had done to them, he felt, the terror, the pain. It was what he deserved, and it was horrifying to watch. 

I ran. 

I ran over rooftops and through alleyways without stopping. He had taken me miles away from the GCPD building, deep into the narrows. I ran while the dead of Gotham shrieked and screamed and roared in fury and triumph, a great cacophony of noise and music. 

And for once, I wasn't the only one who heard it all. Gotham blazed to life, lights turning on, and shouts of confusion echoing. People leaned out of cars and looked out of windows while the city sang. 

The dead of Gotham were not only victims of Zsasz. The amount of unsolved crime is incredible. And those who were not taking their vengeance were running with me, a silver mist trail of centuries of life cut short. 

And I, all of twelve years old, a week from thirteen, leapt over everyone in Gotham, eyes blazing silver and bright and _strange_.

Gas leak, they said later. Car crashes, some said later. Planes, some said. 

(They did not want to face the truth, because the truth meant that there was something bigger and badder and _scarier_ than them out there, running wild and free and feral.)

But for one night, all of Gotham knew the truth. The dead carried it in a whispered scream in the ears of everyone. 

_The Prince of Gotham is the prince of Gotham's dead, too._

That's how they got that nickname, at least in my world. 

(That implies that my parents were King and Queen of Gotham's dead. I have not seen them, bloody and bright and kind and dignified. I hope that they are somewhere brighter than Gotham, somewhere where people are like them. Somewhere _good_.)

(I wonder if I would go there.)

(I wonder if they would be proud.)

James Gordon was on the rooftop of the GCPD building, almost like we had jumped years and years in the future. And I slipped on the roof, silent as a shadow, and scared the hell out of him. 

I didn't speak that night. I was afraid that _they_ (the dead, Gotham's hidden millions) would speak with me. But I led Bullock and Gordon to the warehouse where Zsasz was, catatonic with the damage that he had wrought upon himself through the suffering he placed on others. 

( _Was it worth it?_ I thought viciously. _Was all that death worth the pain and terror? Can you feel their gratitude of being freed?_ )

(Apparently, it was. He escaped Arkham. He killed seven before he was caught, howling with delight as he stood in the middle of a bus, bodies piled high.)

(He was free for maybe three hours.)

(I was hiding for long after that.)

Everyone in he warehouse had moved on, except for that one girl who had fought him. 

She didn't want just vengeance. She wanted _j_ _ustice_ as well. She looked and watched until Zsasz was in handcuffs and in the back of a police cruiser, and then, did she finally fade away. 

I think about her quite a bit. 

I wasn't hurt. I didn't go to the hospital. I went home with Alfred who was at the GCPD. Alfred, who was ready to pull out Great-Grandpappy Wayne's hunting rifle and kick down every door in Gotham to find me. Frankly, I'm pretty sure Gordon would have let him, hell, even joined him, if I hadn't contacted him. 

Some higher-ups wanted me to write a statement. To which most of the bullpen said something to the effect of _hell no._

Alfred didn't ask me to speak as we went home. He understood as much as he could. The silence was heavy, but not suffocating, as it had been _that_ night.

My eyes would never be blue again. 

For my thirteenth birthday, I received a card from the GCPD and a consultant's badge. I don't even want to know how many strings they pulled for that to happen, but me helping nab Zsasz probably had something to do with it. 

All that the consultant's badge meant was they they would now pay me for what I helped them with, and that I was legally allowed on crime scenes instead of Bullock just bellowing that I was an intern at whoever questioned my presence. 

When I returned, the desk unofficially reserved for me was now fit with an actual nameplate that read _Kid With Spooky Eyes._

The elaborate excuses for that nameplate were probably the best part of it. 

Some of the best were outright denial that the nameplate was even there, an early April Fool's joke (in February), and that it was someone's _actual name_ and that they're sensitive about it so don't mention it. 

Like I said, I joined the Council when I was thirteen. I mean, it's not like I was acting as a vigilante. I was acting with the GCPD. But that didn't prevent you all from _kidnapping_ me for a week only to spit me back out a minute later in my world.

I've worked for three years like this, and I've grown past _Kid With Spooky Eyes._ I've worked to gain the trust of Gotham, of the GCPD. I've bit my tongue when people push me to perform tricks like a trained monkey. I've smiled past shouting headlines. And it's _exhausting_. 

For three years, I've hidden my training. For three years, I've dulled my claws and filed my teeth to hide the threat when I smile. For three years, my eyes haven't blazed with light. 

And that will _change_. 

I have accepted my connection to Gotham's dead. I have accepted what I do. I have _not_ accepted the limitations of a civilian.

It is not enough to catch the murderers. I have to stop them from becoming killers in the first place. 

I'm preparing to leave Gotham for further training. As I recall, the Council usually doesn't get a warning before the younger members drop off the map for more than a few years, so take the blessing and don't freak out. 

And while quite a few of us return as both the Bat and Brucie Wayne, idiot billionaire playboy, I will not. I'm not saying that my trip won't change me. I'm saying that I'm not hiding from Gotham behind a mask. As long as my eyes are silver, I will not. As long as I carry the terror and grief of Zsasz's victims, I will not hide behind a mask. They deserve more than that. They deserve more than a scared kid riling up the dead with words of rebellion. 

But at the same time, I'm still that kid. 

I'm still that kid with blue eyes in the alleyway, hearing the name of my parents' murderer ring in my ears. I'm still that kid with eyes flickering silver and blue after a nightmare, staring into a mirror and willing them to be _normal_. I'm still that kid standing in a warehouse with a knife at my throat and eyes glowing silver. 

I am not alone. I have Alfred. The dead stand with me. The GCPD stands with me. Gotham stands with me. 

It doesn't matter. My eyes are still silver. And I am still afraid. 

The first truth of Batman may be that we’re never alone. 

But the second truth is that we’re _scared_. 

And we live with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think!


	20. Two Snapshots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two snapshots. One funny (I hope) and the other a bit more serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ, guys, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to leave you hanging like that, but really life kicked me in the ass. I recently lost someone that was very dear to me (not from Covid, they lived a long and healthy life) and my writing just wasn't working out. Luckily, life had been looking up, even with Covid, and my inspiration for writing is back. I banged this out in like an hour, and even though it's a little short, it's something. 
> 
> My name for a Martha Wayne as Batwoman is the Weeping Woman. Might have a chapter on that later.And 432 is Universe 432. Might've been a little confusing.
> 
> Also, would anyone be interested in seeing an original work I'm currently working on? I have about five chapters already, at about 4000 words each. Just wanted to know if anyone would like me to post it or not.

Hey, what's up fuckers, guess where we went."

This was the greeting 52 and Beyond gave Flashpoint, Bryce 233, and 432 as they sat at a table in one of the kitchens in the Manor. Despite many of the members of the Council not being able to cook anything other than a bombass grilled cheese, it was always fully stocked with everyone's favorites.

Bryce was the only one who looked up from her cereal, where she had been attempting to divine the secrets of the universe. Then again, maybe she had just fallen asleep with her eyes open. She was the current Keeper of the Manor, after Hugo Strange had torn part of her cowl and people online made the obvious connections. She was going through a Thing, and here she could sort out what to do next.

"Why are you covered in blood?" she asked muzzily. Ah. So she had fallen asleep.

Flashpoint then looked up in obvious concern. It was less that he cared that they might be hurt, but that there was blood and thus probably a body. "Is that a toga?" he asked instead, because that was the most jarring to him. What in the ever-loving fuck.

"You went to Ancient Egypt to see if the Ten Plagues were real, didn't you?" 432 asked tiredly.

"How'd you guess?" Terry asked, beaming.

"You're covered in blood, and I can hear frogs," 432 said, unamused. Indeed, there was a faint ribbiting coming from a wicker basket. "Don't you two remember the protocol?"

52 nodded earnestly. "Yeah, don't fuck with a major religion. But this is different!" he proclaimed.

"Oh really?" asked Bryce, raising an eyebrow?

"Yeah, this is three of them!" Terry said.

Silence around the table while the smiles on 52 and Terry slowly faded away.

"That... doesn't make it better, guys," 432 said.

"It actually makes it worse-" Flashpoint started to say. He was interrupted by Bryce, who was too tired for this shit.

"Shut up. How bad is the damage?" she asked. It was a testament to how much havoc to two young men wreaked that they knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Well, everything went off without a hitch," began 52, and went off as he saw Bryce relax slightly. "We had to steal some lamb's blood so we weren't, y'know, killed at the end, but I gotta say, that guy with the stupid hat is a fucking dickbag-"

"That's the Pharaoh, king of Egypt-" began 432. Bryce interrupted again. 

"Focus. Did you interact with anyone?"

They exchanged shifty glances.

"Oh, Christ," said Bryce, putting her face into her hands. "You talked to Moses. Oh Lord, you probably showed him a smartphone and took a goddamn selfie with a fucking prophet, we're going to hell-"

"No, we called the Pharaoh an ass!" argued 52, then covered his mouth as he realized what he said. Bryce, fairly glowing with suppressed anger, glared balefully at them through her fingers.

"THAT'S NOT ANY BETTER."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you guys saying that Moses and all that jazz with the river of blood and God killing the firstborns was real?" Matt stuck his head in. Not through the door, no, but through the vents. He had been eavesdropping after sneaking into the Manor all by himself. Whoever was on guard duty at the front must've been impressed enough to let the little shit in.

He crawled out like a goddamned spider and Flashpoint jumped away from his grilled cheese with a muffled swear. Matt dropped down beside Terry and looked up at him, picking up the frog from the basket and holding it easily in his hands.

"Hell yeah. Checkmate, atheists," said 52, making a reference that no one other than him and Terry got.

"Yeah, they were. No one sang The Plagues from Prince of Egypt, with I regard as a travesty. Other than that, yep," said Terry, nodding.

"No fucking way," said Matt. "Scientists thought it was a volcanic explosion, y'know, the one that supposedly sank Atlantis-"

"Well, I mean, that was real too-" said 432, but he was swiftly cut off by a strangely excited Matt.

"No, listen! They thought that it caused an algae bloom that caused the water to turn red and the fish to die and the frogs to flee the river and so on. And you said it's not algae, but blood? Real, actual, blood?"

"Well, yeah-" said 52, looking slightly bewildered.

"Stank to high hell, too," nodded Terry.

"Okay. God's real." said Bryce, rubbing at her eyes. "At least half of the Bible, the Torah, and the Quaran is confirmed to be real. Good G - can I even say that anymore?"

"We're all going to Hell anyway. Might as well," said Flashpoint.

"Jesus tapdancing Christ."

"I don't get why you're all freaking out," said 432, crossing his arms. "The Greek and Roman gods, as well as Solomon, have all been confirmed thanks to Billy and Diana. What's one more deity?"

"Bitch, have you even read the Bible?" asked 52. "He, capital H He pulls some pagan god shit pretty early on."

"Actually, human sacrifices were a lot more common than animal ones," said Matt. He was just full of strange facts today. "The fact that God seemingly preferred animals like sheep and goats was seen as a huge step away from Paganism at the time, as a well a slap in the face to the Egyptians, who had a god who rams and sheep were sacred to. If anyone sacrificed one to God, they would be stoned."

"Well then, that makes it all better!" said Bryce, throwing her hands up into the air. "I too live for the river of fucking blood aesthetic!"

"Oh, lay off, it was actually pretty cool," said Terry.

"Cool or not, He killed children!" said Bryce.

"Oh, that's true, I guess," 52 said.

"Did you take any samples?" 432 asked.

"Of course we did!" said Terry. "Who do you think we are?"

"A bunch of reckless idiots who put themselves into the middle of the Ten Plagues of Egypt because they were bored-" started Bryce, but she cut herself off as a bloody bag hit the middle of the table with a wet _shlap_.

"Oh, that's _disgusting_ -" Bryce said, looking faintly ill. Flashpoint had both eyebrows raised and 432 leaned away.

"Wuss," said 52, taking the frog from Matt.

"Oh, and we're keeping Kermit, too," Terry said, picking up the wicker basket and heading out the door.

"You named one of the frogs from the Ten Plagues _Kermit_?" called 432.

"What were you expecting, Bradwick Avery Phillipston Jameston the Fourth?" shot Matt.

"Not Kermit," said Flashpoint, shaking his head.

The three boys left the area, leaving the three semi-responsible adults to deal with the bloody bag.

Typical.

* * *

"We fucked up, we fucked up, we fucked up," said Beyond, running out of the swirling blue portal.

"What happened?" said Bryce, shooting to her feet. Flashpoint tensed.

"Our info was bad," said Beyond. "I'll prepare a debrief as soon as I get this shit sorted out, pronto."

"What can you tell us now?" Flashpoint pressed.

Beyond looked at him. "Let's put it this way," he said. "You and the Weeping Woman aren't the only non-civilian Thomas and Martha Wayne anymore."

Flashpoint sat back down heavily as Beyond disappeared into the portal, which sealed itself shut behind him.

Fuck.

\---------

Most, if not all of the members of the Council had gathered at the Manor. There was a visible strain on the Manor itself. Time had been thrown out of sorts, making it necessary to pause all worlds outside of it, lest years go by in a few minutes. Lights flickered on and off and rooms were all over the place.

Meetings like these were only caused by massive screwups.

And this was a massive screwup.

"What's the situation?" asked 432 as Beyond paced in front of the gathered people.

"Universe 8319 is the problem," said Beyond. "Thomas and Martha Wayne are still alive. Normally, this would be good news, but..."

"They saw you, didn't they?" asked Flashpoint. Beyond nodded grimly.

"They did," he confirmed. "And they also demanded answers."

"First things first," said one. "Why were you there in the first place?"

"It was on orders from 396," said Beyond. "They saw that Universe 8319 would suffer from complications regarding the alleyway, and sent me to intervene. The complication would either be someone getting hurt that wasn't supposed to, or someone not getting hurt that was. 396 assumed that it would be the first case, and 8319 would need medical attention or risk death."

"396, is this true?" asked Bryce 233.

He nodded. "It is."

"Continue, Beyond," said Flashpoint.

"I arrived in the alleyway and watched Joseph Morgan Chilton load his gun and hide himself," said Beyond. "The Waynes of 8319 entered the alleyway as expected, and Chilton proceeded to attempt to mug them."

"Attempt?" asked 432.

"My research indicates that Thomas Wayne of Universe 8319 registered for and completed a self-defense class that included disarming an attacker with a gun, provided by the GCPD," said Beyond. "And as a result, he was able to take the gun without any shots being fired, and police were notified."

"How did they see you?" asked Bryce.

"The Batsuit was on low power. I had opened the portal and activated the cloaking mechanism too early for it to last the entire mission. I had expected a short trip, so I was not concerned about low power. I was planning on bringing 8319 to the medbay here while putting that universe on pause, recharging the suit while he was being treated, and then taking him back at full power."

"So it ran out of power, and you were seen," concluded one. Beyond rubbed the back of his neck.

It was more like I fell out of the air three feet in front of them and said 'Holy shit, you're alive,'" said Beyond. "It was not my finest performance, I will admit."

"And since any contact with a Thomas or Martha Wayne automatically renders them a non-civilian, you had to answer all their questions, after notifying me and Flashpoint," said Bryce.

Beyond nodded. "That is correct."

"396, as the only one of us present with any sort of clairvoyance and metacognition, how will this affect the universe in question?" asked 432.

396 frowned.

"It's hard to say," he said eventually. "Beyond's unwitting interference has muddied the water somewhat, but a picture is forming. Has 8319 expressed an interest in joining our ranks?"

Beyond nodded. "He has, but his parents have also expressed disapproval through their shock of being told that they were to be murdered in front of the only son and that said son would protect Gotham as vengeance for it."

"Flashpoint, Weeping Woman," said Bryce. Both people, on the opposite sides of the rooms, looked up. "How do you want to play this?" she asked. "Do you want to initiate contact, or wait until later?"

"Later," they said at once. Flashpoint was well aware that he was not what people would call a good influence. To get involved now would only lead to awkward conversations, and Flashpoint regularly avoided _normal_ conversations.

"Very well," said Bryce. She turned back to Beyond. "There's nothing we can do now but wait until he comes of age," she said. "Until he makes his choice, we can only guide him and hope."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8319 and 432 will make another appearance.


	21. The Who's Who of the Council of Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if says on the tin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this is as much for you guys as it is for me. I need this to prevent me from getting confused. 
> 
> Also, my spacebar's acting a bit wonky so sorry for any typos.

So, let’s get some things straight. 

There are a lot, and I mean,  _ a lot _ , of members in the Council of Nocturne. Upwards of a thousand. 

And I’ve already introduced some to you already. 52, Flashpoint, and Beyond, for example. 

Three other non-canonical members are the ones in The Second Truth of Batman. In case you haven’t read them (please do, make me feel validated, they’re some of the longest chapters I’ve written), they’re all in 1st person view of something traumatic that happened, and how they’re all different from the rest of the cast.

In the order I introduced them in, there’s Stygian, Shadow, and Silver. In chapters 17, 18, and 19 respectively.

Stygian is actually two people. In this universe, Bruce Wayne developed Disassociative Identity Disorder after the murder of his parents. Stygian is the name of the alter. They deal with childhood bullies and sharing a headspace with something that wants to hurt them.

Shadow is a metahuman. After the alleyway, something changed and he found himself able to wield shadows at will. So, like, I don’t know that much about metahuman powers, and I hope I didn’t screw with the canon too badly on how they develop. I was actually going off of Marvel comics and how mutant abilities manifest themselves during stressful situations. If the murder of your parents isn’t stressful, I don’t know what is. In there, he deals with Waller being a bitch. 

Silver is a… medium? Psychic? The kid can see ghosts. More specifically, people who died violently. He knows things that he shouldn’t and helps the GCPD with seemingly unsolvable murder cases *cough cough* the Wayne murders *cough*. Then, Zsasz shows up. 

I also introduced 432, from Universe 432, in chapter 20, which contained two snapshots (hah) of two things that I tried to flesh out into fully developed chapters but couldn’t quite get them to. What makes him different? Oh god, he deals with so much shit. He might be my favorite, even though I made him as a throwaway character at first. He now features in a little mini-series I have sitting on my laptop waiting to be finished, and I’m totally going to get to that sometime soon. 

Another one I mentioned was Bryce 233. She recently had her identity revealed and was the current Keeper of the Manor. An explanation for the Manor can also be found in Chapter 15. I… don’t think she shows up again. 

Another Bryce Wayne that I created in that mini-series  _ that I will post, even if it kills me, I will finish a goddamned storyline- _ is Bryce 317. She’s cool, logical, and not sleep deprived like our other dear Batwoman. 

Now, there were two others. 116, also known as Lunar. Can you guess what they are? Yes, werewolves. They’re a tad on the feral side (and  _ Jesus Christ there are  _ **_no_ ** _ A/B/O dynamics, I hate hate  _ **_hate_ ** _ that) _ , but they can fight. Very. Very. Well. I refer to the *main* bat (wolf, whatever) as Lunar, but with the other member of that universe present in that story, I just refer to as 116. Do I know who they are? Of course not! Bruce Wayne has emotionally adopted so many children, how could I pick?

The other one was *checks notes* ...Scales? Man, the creative juices were  _ not _ flowing that night, were they? Hey, but it does the job. They’re dragons. They’re able to shift to and from a dragon to vaguely human-ish form (like they still have patches of scales on them and sometimes they smoke more than James Gordon). The universe number is 235. 

Now, other guys that I’ve mentioned but haven’t talked about in detail down below:

  * Russian Bat: Here to drink vodka and wrestle bears, and he’s all out of vodka. Mentioned in chapter 1, will probably be only used for comedic effect. 
  * Phantom Bat: Some hellish lovechild of the universes of Batman and Danny Phantom and a microburst of Fandom Obsession. Took a dare from Hal (or to impress a certain Amazon) to test out a portal that R&D was working on and got half-killed. Mentioned in chapter 15 and never again, might show up if I get a burst of inspiration. 
  * 167, the tired student. Mentioned in chapter 15, will grow up to be a regular Batman. Eh. Kind of ambivalent to him. A bit average. Probably won’t use him again. 
  * King of Gotham: An as-of-yet unborn idea in my head that I got from the fic Changer, by FuzzedlyFree. It’s lovely, go give it a read. Is really intense, really quiet, does not like people who take advantage of the weak, like pedophiles, rapists, and abusers. Except, instead of letting them dangle from a lamppost, he just shoots them. That’ll be a yikes from me, chief. Mentioned in chapter 15.
  * The Weeping Woman. Inspired by a vague memory of a comic where Martha Wayne was Batwoman and I think she had Talia Al-Ghul as her Robin but she wasn’t called Robin she was like another bird??? I’m pretty sure it was predatory?? Kind of the counterpoint to Flashpoint, also kills people. They don’t interact much. It’s a little awkward. Was going to write a chapter for her but it got deleted. Mentioned in chapters 15 and 20. 
  * 8319: Where Thomas and Martha Wayne weren’t murdered, but the Council (read: Terry) messes things up. Mentioned in chapter 20.



I might’ve missed a few, if I did, please let me know!

But that’s not all the ideas that I have. Help me. Please. 

  * So I have various (read: metric fuck ton) of ideas for a Highschool AU. Soooo many. 
    * Justice League 
      * Luthor 
        * Kind of mean, kind of not
        * Class president
      * Amanda Waller 
        * Superintendent
        * Everyone hates her
      * Arthur
        * From Hawaii
        * Can surf
        * Coolest dude out of these dorks
      * Clark
        * Adopted but not an alien
        * Is a school reporter with Lois
        * Decided to join the lacrosse team under a fake name (“Kal L.”) just to impress Lois
          * Turned out, he’s really good at it and is now in way over his head
          * Cue shenanigans w/ Bruce who is deeply amused at all of this
        * The wlw peeps (Harley, Ivy, Kate, Kara, Lena, Renee) all think he’s the greatest
          * They’re cool with Bruce too
      * Diana
        * Exchange student from Greece
        * Super overprotective mother - hasn’t even seen Disney movies
          * The boys make it their mission to introduce Diana to the wonders of American culture
          * It’s fun
        * Starts dating Steve Trevor
          * Bruce gives her a knife like women in Ancient Sparta had to slice their husband’s faces if he hit them. 
          * Diana loves it
          * Steve’s so scared of his girlfriend’s friends
      * Barry
        * Perpetually tired
        * Forensic science major
        * Track
          * Tries not to be late to meetings but you know
          * At some point Bruce and he break into the school grounds so he can practice
      * Victor
        * Comp Sci major
        * Has a prosthetic arm and leg from a car accident
          * Working w/ Bruce to make it robotic
        * Oh and rode an ATV down the halls on the last day of school with a FUCK YOU WALLER flag attached to the back
    * AND THEN A ROAD TRIP AU CAUSE WHY NOT
      * HAHAHA you thought I would put as much effort as I did into this one as the last outline? No! It’s nearing midnight where I am and I want this out as soon as possible.



Oh, and there’s one with an older version of 8319. He’s in high school and a lot of people are there. Dick, Jason (middle school), Tim (middle school with Jason but he’s like a fourth-grader), and Clark. There’s also Harley and Ivy, and Harvey Dent and Jonathon Crane, as well as Edward Nigma, Oswald Cobblepot, Joker (Joseph Kerrwitz because I’m clever), and Bane, who apparently doesn’t have a real name. 8319 will unknowingly “save” the first six, while also getting old Joey over there arrested and Bane will throw him through a wall. 

And Selina’s there too. 

The main point of that story is that 8319 is growing up and into the mantle of the Bat, while his parents are none too thrilled about him wanting to fight crime. He's, at most, seventeen, and even that's stretching it. 8319 sees this as what he is supposed to do and goes behind both the backs of the Council and his parents to be the vigilante. 

He meets Catwoman, and love hits him in the face like a fucking brick. Or, that might’ve been the gold bar that hit him in the face. Either way, that boy’s fallen hard (though he will never admit it, not even on pain of death). Cue some Miraculous Ladybug style love squares with Selina and Bruce and their alter-egos and some painfully awkward and obvious flirting. 

Now, of course, the newspapers take note of this, and of course, they take note of how painfully young these two crazy kids are. And suddenly, they’re the new teenage icons. There are fanfictions. There are memes. There are theories on how they’re two long-dead lovers whose ghosts seek each other out for all eternity. 

And 8319 is  _ dying _ because his parents have found out that he’s not only been punching criminals but also  _ flirting and are you two dating do we need to have to the  _ **_talk-_ **

Oh, and his theatre class (Alfred and his mother insisted) is putting on a production. 

It’s called  _ Under the Stars: A Rooftop Romance. _ And he has been cast as the leading man. He’s going to fucking  _ scream. _

_ No one _ has any sympathy for him. “This is what you get for being a teenage Batman,” everyone says. “You could’ve waited a few years and none of this would’ve happened.”

Selina’s been cast as Catwoman because she can actually use a whip (like think of how cool it was that Michelle Pfeiffer did all of her own stunts), and they’re both trying desperately to avoid putting the costumes on because they’re trying to keep their  _ fucking secret identities secret _ and basically everyone's screaming on the inside. 

It also doesn’t help that the whole thing reads like a terrible Twilight fanfiction. 

Hell yes. I’m going to write it.

Not the terrible Twilight fanfiction. The Batman fic. You know what I mean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this was kind of all over the place. It's like midnight right now and I'm super tired. This was just to get my thoughts ins in order and actually spawned some new ideas. I hope you were entertained, at least. 
> 
> Until next time!


	22. They've Taken The Children (Welcome To The Council of Nocturne part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce Wayne of Universe 432 is sooooooo done with these wannabe supervillains. If he finds Asmondion, he'll be lucky to get away with his limbs. 
> 
> But first, he needs to save some kids that don't belong in his universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHA I've DONE it! A storyline is finally complete! I just have to post it!
> 
> Please, enjoy.

This really wasn't how he had wanted to spend his day. Honestly, Bruce Wayne, Batman, of world 432 had so many other things to be doing than herding a bunch of Social Services people around the Manor (not Wayne Manor, the metaphysical one that existed out of time and space). 

But it was what he was doing that day, and he didn't have much of a choice. 

It had started with the brazen attack on the Council. It was unprecedented, and that was why it had worked. They had assumed that no one other than them would have access to their little pocket dimension. They had assumed that no one had even known about it.

But with the right technology, and a fucking rat in one of the GCPD's, of all things, allowed some two-bit villain calling themselves Asmondion to take the youngest members of the Council at one of the meetings. Among the taken were the youngest of 235, or Scales, as the world was called, the youngest of 116, or Lunar, Beyond's younger brother, who had just entered training to help his older brother and was taking the entire "my brother is my actual real-life hero and puts his life on the line every night" thing very well, and 8319, who, while only twelve, had joined the Council since the night of the alley. There had been certain... complications, with what had happened. 

But that was beside the point. 

The point was that they were children and that they had been taken to prove a point. 

Beyond was almost hysterical, Scales was about to set something on fire, Lunar was tearing up the carpet and quite literally snarling at anyone who came too close, and 52 and Flashpoint, who had looked over 8319 more than anyone else, were out for blood. 

Flashpoint had just about convinced 52 to let him use actual bullets when 432 came in with news of the children's whereabouts.

"As tempting as it is, Flashpoint," Bryce of 317 (frankly, there were so few of them in the Council, and they were all very different in demeanor and looks, as far as looks went when you're sharing the exact same DNA as the others, that numbers differentiating them weren't really necessary) said. "They did not outright declare war on the Council, and we already had some of us cross into the other universes this year. The children won't cause many ripples, but the full fury of the Council of Nocturne will."

As some more of the scientific members of the Council knew, there was a set amount of mass in the universe. Add more, like say, another copy of Thomas Wayne, and the universe wants to correct that. The theoretical explanation of what would happen when the universe started making said corrections included vaporization and negative particles and didn't sound pleasant at all. 

"They're in your universe, right?" Lunar snarled, mask made of soot and ash making icy eyes stand out. 

432 wordlessly held up a tablet showing the children, one with smoldering eyes, one with tear-smudged charcoal lining around their eyes, one furiously trying to untie the ropes around their hands, and the one trying to soothe the others. 

"Matt!" Beyond shouted. "Those fuckers, that's my little brother!"

"We're going to get them out," Bryce said. "432 is, at least."

"There's no question about that," 432 said. "But Asmondion is using a trafficking ring as a cover. He's forced me to get the GCPD involved. And you know what that means "

"Child Protective Services," they chorused as one. 

In their experiences, CPS always seems to royally fuck up with children in Gotham. Maybe it's because children from the City of a Million Sins always seem to be built for battle. Maybe it's because words mean jack shit to them when everyone has their own agenda. Maybe it's because they've been taught that mental health professionals are more likely to hurt them than to help them. 

But perhaps what's worst of all is that CPS doesn't trust the Bats. It's not out of any sense of personal injury, it's just inconvenient. They want to know everything about you, to make sure you're trustworthy, and while this is great, usually, if you're a vigilante who operates out of the shadows, it's irritating. 

"They're going to want to know where they came from," said Bryce. “And they’re going to look to you to provide an answer.”

“Frankly, I was just going to tell them the truth,” said 432. Damn what the consequences were for him, they were children, and despite what roots they knew, they were still probably scared. 

“Really?” asked Scales, eyes aflame with fury and fear. Not directed at anyone in the room, and that made it all the more terrible to behold. “What will you do to make them believe you?”

“Tell the truth,” 432 said again. Despite his resolution, he felt an icy pit open in his stomach. This had ended far worse than what he hoped would happen. 

“You would do that?” asked Beyond. 

“There is very little anyone wouldn’t do to get them back,” said 432. “Granted, this is not how I wanted it to go, well, at all, but my relationship with the GCPD is currently good enough for it. Gordon is Commissioner, and at this point, he’s just short of closing his eyes, covering his ears, and screaming at the top of his lungs to drown out the fact of who Batman actually is.”

“That’s all well and good, but what about the others?” Flashpoint asked. 

“John and Mary Grayson finished their act safely. Tony Zucco had been in jail for extortion for about a year at that point. Jason Todd was taken in by Leslie Thompkins when his mother died of an overdose, and he’s currently helping her out at the clinic. Jack and Janet Drake decided to actually raise their son properly. He’s poised to take over Drake Industries when he’s of age, and I look forward to a business relationship with him in the future. Better than Luthor, anyway. Barbara Gordon never knew Dick Grayson, other than a few random ads for Haley’s Circus, and was never a target for Joker. She plans to attend the GCPD Academy this fall. Stephanie Brown’s maternal grandmother died in a car accident as far as I can tell. She never was born, unfortunately. Lady Shiva and David Cain never conceived, and David Cain has never been a father. Not that he was much of one anyway, but you get the point. Duke Thomas’s parents were never hit by Joker gas and they’re currently living happily in the suburbs in Metropolis. Damian…” 432 paused. He took a deep breath. 

“Ra’s Al-Ghul killed his daughter after she helped me escape him when I first went to the League of Assassins,” he said. “She… The Pit failed to resurrect her. I don’t know why.”

“You’ve never had a Robin,” Beyond said. “Or anyone else. Wow.”

“That may be true, but I have a closer relationship with the JLA and other superhero teams,” 432 said. “It’s been difficult, but I have a wider support network.”

“While this has been fun,” Lunar snarled, teeth sharpening a little, “we have children that are still in the middle of a goddamned trafficking ring.” 

“I’ll get them out. You have my word,” said 432. 

“You’d better,” hissed Scales. 

A braver man would’ve quailed between their twin glares, but 432 had bigger fish to fry. Namely, how to convince Gordon not to arrest Bruce Wayne for vigilantism. 

* * *

“Gordon, trust me when I say that this is not how I wanted things to go,” The Dark Knight began as he crouched on a rooftop nearby the warehouse where the kids were being kept. 

(Jim hated people who did that, who took kids from bad situations and put them into worse. It made him sick to his stomach, and sometimes he wished he could put on his own mask and punch the living daylights out of them.)

“Wanted what?” he asked, lighting his pipe. Screw his lungs, his hands were shaking. 

“This,” the Bat said, and took off his cowl. 

Uh. 

Jim didn’t really think too much about the Dark Knight’s identity. He didn’t want to. But deep down, in his heart of hearts, he knew that Gotham’s Prince and her Knight were one and the same. He never expected to receive confirmation of it, though. 

Of course, this was all in Jim’s subconscious. Jim’s waking mind barely had time to register piercing blue eyes and midnight hair and a face that had matured from a scared child into a man made of ancient bones and steel and broken glass. 

He choked on his breath of smoke and dropped his pipe. The man (he couldn’t reconcile Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s playboy with the living and breathing weapon in front of him) offered a sympathetic smile, as rare as the moon with Gotham’s near-constant cloud cover. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can explain now, but there will be more to explain in that warehouse.”

Dimly, Jim was aware of the other GCPD members around them, frozen still with shock. 

“Continue,” he heard himself say to them. “Get moving. This changes nothing.”

_Liar. This changes everything._

“There are four children in that warehouse that don’t belong here. Not in this universe,” Wayne - Batman said, placing the cowl back over his head. 

“Universe?” Jim croaked out. 

“String theory, Commissioner. You can’t possibly think that the only universe in existence is our own. For every choice we make, for every path we choose, there is another where you choose a different one. We call ourselves the Council of Nocturne.”

“Dramatic bastards,” Jim said. 

“Precisely. A man calling himself Asmondion took four of the young ones and placed them here. Science really does hate it when more mass is shoved into its system, and the balance is already precarious. I’m the one responsible for bringing them back.”

“CPS,” Jim said. 

“Yes. That’s why.”

“Okay.”

“You’re taking this very well,” he said. 

“It’s called shock,” said Jim. 

“It’s almost time,” said Batman. “I’m going in.”

And he jumped ten stories. 

* * *

Well, that went better than expected. Gordon didn’t shoot at him, he was on his way to rescue the children, and CPS was currently nowhere in sight. For the moment. 

He crashed through a window with a snarl of rage (nothing like Lunar’s but they couldn’t all have the amount of skill that he had) and started making his way through Asmondion’s hired army. Ropes were cut and locks were picked, and even if four of the children of the Council hadn’t been taken, this would’ve been a win in his books. Dozens of young women and children fled the warehouse as he waded his way deeper into the complex. 

And there, in the back, he found them. He kicked the door in and was immediately knocked back by a fourteen-year-old boy in dark clothes and a domino mask. 

“Run, guys!” Beyond’s brother said as he wound up to throw a punch. 

“Beyond sent me,” 432 called before the kid could break his nose. He had a wicked jab. 

“Terr - uh, Beyond, did?” he asked. 

“What of the others?” asked 116. 

“The entire Council is waiting for you all,” 432 said. “You just have to come with me.”

“And the others in here?” said 8319 as he herded them out of the back room. Asmondion could wait. He needed to get them out of the way. 

“They’re all free,” said 432. They made it out of the warehouse, easily keeping up with his long strides. “Come on, if we move fast, we can avoid -”

“Hey! Are they okay?”

He sighed. “CPS.”

432 turned, seeing a motherly looking woman run up with blankets draped over her arm. They were unnecessary. Beyond’s brother was dressed for the weather in his world, which happened to be the dead of winter and matched with 432’s world. 116 had a cloak made of wolf fur around them, which was far warmer than anything modern. Scale’s people generated their own heat, and 8319 stuck close to them. 

“We’re fine,” Beyond’s brother said. “We’re going home.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but you can’t,” said the woman. Her name tag read Maria. “We’ll need to ask you a few questions and you need to get checked out by the doctor.”

“We’re all uninjured,” said 116 while Beyond’s brother fumed at being called sweetheart. “All we need to do is go home.”

“Is he your parent or guardian?” Maria asked, before actually looking at who they were with. Her face paled slightly. “Uh, sir.”

“No, but-” 235 began. Maria cut him off. 

“Then you can’t go with him. Not until your parents get here,” Maria said firmly. 

Bullshit,” barked 8319 from where he was huddled next to 235 and slightly behind 432’s cape. 432 looked at him reprovingly and Beyond’s brother (they really did need a name for him to use at the Council) said a reproachful “dude.”

“They’re with me,” 432 said. For the second time that night, he pulled off his cowl. Maria’s face twisted into confusion. 

“Mr. Wayne? But-”

“This is bigger than you, uh, Maria,” said Gordon, appearing out of nowhere and taking a glance at her name tag. “They’re with him. 

“Their parents-” she started to say, but then got a good look at 8319. Her eyes widened even further. 

“Are probably dead, so if we could please move along-” 8319 started to say. 

“Our guardians are currently in a meeting place,” Beyond’s brother said. “Sorry that we’re so vague, but we really can’t be more specific unless someone vouches for you. We’re headed back home, we’re safe, probably safer than anywhere else in this place, and we’ll be fine.”

Maria had been stunned enough that she had let them pass. 432 had thought that would be the end of it, that things would go back to normal, more or less. And they had. All of the GCPD knew who he was, but that was fine. As Bullock so elegantly put it, “snitches get stitches.” 

And Maria, of course, seemed like a good sort and wouldn’t bother him any further. And after all, who would believe just one shaken social worker? 

But, of course, he had to tempt fate, and fate had fallen hook, line, and sinker. 

This was not how he had wanted to spend his day. But there he was. And he didn't have a choice. 

Because apparently, Maria was quite convincing. And concerned about a boy with ash and charcoal on his face and dressed in furs, because apparently that wasn't normal, not even in Gotham. Concerned about a boy with rough patches of skin and eyes that burned with fury and sadness and something a little more than that as well. Concerned about a boy who bore a resemblance to what Maria considered the Gotham CPS's greatest failure, and her opinion had been right, judging by what she had seen of him as an adult. Concerned about a boy wearing a mask that was meant for adults, a mask that meant he threw himself forward every night into this damned city and fought to make it better. 

For the same reasons that 432 fought to rescue them and return them, Maria wanted to take them away. Maria, of course, was slightly misguided. That boy with ash and charcoal wears it as a sign of family, a sign of brotherhood. That boy with rough patches on his skin is merely holding back something ancient and beautiful, something deadly. His eyes burn with the flame that is inside him, the flame that beats with his heart. That boy who resembled what she thought a failure of the system was but a cracked mirror, healing, slowly but surely, until it forced the monsters to look themselves in the eye. That boy who wears a mask not meant for children? He's earned it. 

Maria was involving herself in something much, much larger than her. And she was doing it for the sake of those children. 

And that was why the Council of Nocturne took her seriously. That was why they respected her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be working on what I said I'd be working on in the last chapter, so yay for multi chapter works.
> 
> Also, for my other Batman fic, The Thorns of a Rose, I'm working on it I s w e a r but I didn't put that "slow updates" tag there for no reason.


	23. This Is Bullshit, I Tell You (Welcome To the Council of Nocturne part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay, 432 is a tour guide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, please!

"Are you kidding me," Bruce Wayne of world 432 said. 

It wasn't even a question. It was a statement of disbelief. 

"No, I'm afraid we're not, Mr. Wayne," Maria the social worker said with a kind of malicious glee. The form that was filled out in front of him glared an offending yellow.

"I don't even have any children," he said. 

"And yet we find reason enough to come here, Mr. Wayne," said the man beside her. Simon, his name tag said. 

432 wanted to laugh. "You're not gonna find anything here," he said. 

Maria's eyes glittered. "Then you won't object-"

"If you really want to find something, you’ll need my help,” 432 interrupted. “And call me B. I have enough of Mr. Wayne from my employees.” 

Leaving the door wide open, he turned on his heel and made his way to the study. While he didn’t quite look back to make sure they were following him, he slowed his pace just enough that they wouldn’t lose sight of him. 

He met Alfred in the hall and had a complicated conversation constitution on gesticulations and eyebrow movements. Alfred got the memo to stay out of sight, that for once, Bruce had an idea of what he was doing. 

As Simon and Maria (and fifteen of the FBI’s best agents, where on Earth did they come from?) filed into the study, 432 shot them an unsettling grin and activated the secret passageway. 

“Forgive me for the dramatics, but we’re quite fond of them,” he said, making his way down the stone stairs as if he did it every day. Which he did, but that's beside the point. “Watch the steps, they’re slippery,” he called unnecessarily as one agent slipped and took out three others. Ha. 

He activated the lights in the Batcave and took some pleasure in how they were all off-kilter. The show was just beginning. 

“This way, and don’t touch,” he said. 

The agent hurriedly pulled his hand back from the Batmobile. 

432 picked up the container that was next to the lead box that held the kryptonite. Yeah, he wasn’t opening that one anytime soon, that was for sure. He picked up the small device that rested there and tossed it to the floor like a bang snap. However, instead of making a popping noise as the gunpowder explodes, a glowing blue portal swirled into life on the floor. 

“Ladies first?” he asked. 

Maria shook her head. She seemed to have grown a solid backbone and recovered from her shock beautifully. 

“Age before beauty,” she snipped. 

Simon nudged her side. “Y’know, maybe you should not antagonize the guy who took out an entire SWAT team without a scratch,” he whispered. 

The agents gripped their weapons a little more tightly. 

Mr. Way - Batm - B shrugged, unfair elegance gracing his movements. 

“If you insist,” he said, then dropped through. His hand stuck back up. His voice followed through as well. “It’s perfectly safe. Just drop down.”

Wayne had a funny definition of safe, Maria thought. Because it felt like she was being dragged through forcibly, invisible sandpaper dragging across her skin, cat’s claws tangling in her clothes and holding her back. But she dropped maybe two feet and landed heavily. 

Something in her ankle gave and pain shot up her leg. She staggered to her feet, an irrational fear of looking weak coming into her mind. Perhaps it was the fact that she was quite certain that they were definitely in the territory of a predator. 

Wayne didn’t seem to hold such reservations. Which said a lot about where they were. 

Speaking of. It looked like they were spat back out right in front of Wayne Manor again. But the sky had changed. They had no shadows, like it was an eclipse, but the stars above them looked like miniature galaxies, exploding into existence and dying out just as quick, a glorious and endless cycle of death and rebirth-

A hand shocked her out of her reverie. Wayne was staring at her, eyes cold and blue and terrifying. 

“The infinite glory of the multiverse is fascinating,” he said mildly, like he wasn’t looking like he was about to sprout fangs and horns and eat them all alive. “But people tend to go insane if they stare too long. Come on.”

He moved forward, walking up the incongruous green lawns and beautiful shrubbery. He left shimmering trails in his wake, like glitter through water. The seventeen people followed. 

"Out of the four kids that were there that night," called Wayne behind himself, "only one is currently here. The rest are at their own homes."

They were met at the door by a man dressed in the Batsuit. Maria wasn’t sure if the white lenses were better or worse than the monstrously human blue. The man cocked his head, and oh, Maria regretted this. 

“Bringing in a school trip, 432?” he said, voice just as mild as their guide’s. 

“CPS,” B, or 432 said. “From when the children were taken." 

The guard (that was what he was, wasn’t he?) scowled. 

“The two workers can come in,” he said, gesturing to her and Simon, who hurriedly adjusted his glasses and straightened his polo. “But the Idiot Brigade’s gonna have to stay outside. Unless they would be willing to part with their guns, which I doubt.”

The group of fifteen scowled and harrumphed but stayed outside to the guard’s great amusement. After another strange exchange with the guard, in which Wayne “vouched” for them or something, they were waved through. 

“What’s with that?” Simon asked as they entered a room that should have definitely not been able to fit inside Wayne Manor. The ceiling soared up more than twenty stories in a circular atrium that smelled like fresh air. And moving all around it was people, like ants in a hive. Everyone had somewhere to go, it looked like. Maria felt out of place. 

“Oh, I vouched for you,” said B as they crossed the polished floor. “That means your actions reflect on me, so don’t piss anyone off, okay?”

A shadow crossed over them and a winged figure set upon the ground in front of them, feathers the shade of obsidian with hints of indigo. Maria supposed that the figure sort of vaguely looked like Wayne, but that would be comparing a mere mortal to something… else. Not divine. Oho, not divine at all. The figure moved like walking sex, smooth like chocolate and sharp as broken glass. 

“Hello, Romeo,” said B casually, as if what looked like a fucking fallen angel hadn't landed in front of them. “Put the wings away, will you? You’ll break the social workers.”

“I do hate that name, 432,” he (was it he?) said, folding the wings away. Maria blinked as the spell was broken, and could take in the still very not-unattractive man in front of her. He and Wayne looked like twins, but the man in front of them looked like a version of Wayne in a broken mirror. Where Wayne was broad and muscular, Romeo looked slim and lanky. Not that he didn’t totally pull off the rich-emo-punk look. His face was narrower too, with cheekbones so high and sharp she could cut her wrists on them. 

“We’ll stop calling you that when you pull your head out of your fucking ass and admit your feelings,” Wayne said. “Now come on, I got to find Flashpoint. You know where the bastard is?”

“No clue,” he shrugged, and it was a full-body motion, a ripple of muscle and bone that wasn’t entirely human, and any and all attraction she might’ve felt was washed away in a rush of fear. 

“You’re ever so helpful,” B called as Romeo soared up and away on glorious wings. 

Simon, quite curiously, was beet red. B looked at him curiously. 

“You need some air?” he asked lightly. “Romeo does have that effect. Don’t blame him too much. It’s in his nature.”

“Is he single?” Simon croaked out, then flushed even redder. 

Wayne, who was studiously ignoring Simon’s rather alarming blush, hummed. “Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “But he only has eyes for one angel. Has been for thousands of years. Won’t admit it.”

“Ah,” Simon squeaked. 

“Come on,” B sighed. They followed. “The way the Manor works, if you just keep walking, you’ll get where you need to go. We’ll get there eventually.”

They walked for either a minute or an hour. Time seemed to ooze and slip by in bursts and starts. This was normal, according to B. Maria's ankle ached, but she did her best not to limp. Judging from the deceptively mild looks Wayne gave her, studying her gait with a practiced eye, it didn't work. She felt like a deer being watched by wolves, waiting for any sign of weakness, for an opening to strike. 

They eventually came to a door and B opened it, leading into a dark room, lit by screens. A truly terrifying and hulking figure that was carrying guns loomed by the screens. 

Maria was beginning to think that this was nothing more than a nightmare, these men with monster’s eyes and faces of broken glass, sharp and deadly beautiful. 

“Flashpoint,” B called. “How’s it going?”

The figure turned, and oh, those red highlights did not help at fucking all. 

“432,” he said in a not quite hostile tone of voice. “They’re doing well. Beyond has mostly recovered from when his brother was taken. 52 can focus for more than four seconds at a time now. I think they might actually nail this.” His gaze raked over both of them, purely cold and logical. A question was being asked. _Threat_?

The answer was painfully _no_. 

“What are they doing?” Simon asked, gesturing vaguely to the screens. Maria kicked herself. Of course, they had a job to do. 

"They're hunting," B, or, as he had been called by the others, 432 said. 

"They're what?" Simon blinked. 

"Hunting," the scary one with the guns said. Simon and Maria jerked away as he seemingly appeared from nowhere. They had a nasty habit of doing that. 

"What do you mean?" asked Maria. "What are they hunting?"

"Holograms, for now," 432 said, looking over the balcony that shouldn't have been able to fit there, much less the to scale section of Gotham that was laid out before them. Screens to the side tracked two moving dots through the area, though the glorified security camera views only showed shifting shadow. 

"Their job is to pick a target, separate them from the group, and pin them," Flashpoint said. "Like lions on a hunt."

"That's savage," Maria said, shocked. 

"We play rough here," said Flashpoint with a leonine grin. 

"Flashpoint, she's not even from Gotham," 432 said with a hint of reproach. "You mean, we play _rougher_ here. Gotham's meant to be their domain. And the only way to move through Gotham is to learn in Gotham."

"Be the biggest, baddest motherfucker out there," Simon said. Maria looked at him scandalized, but the vigilantes didn't seem to mind. 

"Exactly," said 432, with a slightly less savage smile. 

"So who's hunting now?" asked Maria. 

"Beyond and 52, some of our senior students," said 432. "They work best as a team. Really, all they're here for is some final polishing of their skills. They're very good at what they do already."

"Already excellent at raising hell around here," muttered Flashpoint. "Fuckin' pain in my ass, they are."

"Oh, you like them anyway," said 432. 

"Damn straight. Be boring if they aren't here."

"Target locked," a shockingly young voice said. 

Maria settled somewhat. This was what she and Simon had been sent to do. Find out if there were children in danger. 

"Excellent work, spawn," said another, younger voice.

"Don't call me that, asshole," the first voice cracked out. 

"Respect your elders, whippersnapper-"

"How old are they?" she demanded as the two boys (like lions on a hunt, her ass, they should be eating junk food and playing video games) bickered back and forth. What they said didn't make sense, was the younger one somehow the older's father?

"Beyond is twenty-four, 52 is twenty. Both joined when they were sixteen," Flashpoint said. "They received the appropriate training for their age, as well as anything extra they needed help in."

"Needed help as in, wasn't perfect?" Maria asked, raising an eyebrow. 

"Mediocrity is death in our world," 432 said. "Their supplemental training has saved their lives more than a few times. Focus boys, don't let him get away," he said to the children (hunting criminals for sport, this wasn't right-). 

"Yes sir," came the immediate reply. 

Suddenly, Simon screamed, a high, shrill sound of someone who is truly surprised. 

A boy dressed in familiar dark clothes and a domino mask dropped down in front of them from a ceiling vent. Maria recognized him instantly. 

"You!" she said, shocked. 

"You!" the boy said, equally surprised. But unlike Maria, he was able to turn around to the terrifying man without any sign of fear. 

"Is he done yet, Flashpoint?" the boy asked with all the petulance of a child on a long car ride. "It's been over an hour."

"Check your watch, kid," the man (Flashpoint? Strange name) said. "It's been fifteen minutes. The time is off in different parts of the Manor."

"Man, that's still not fixed?" the boy scowled. "8319 joined us _years_ ago. Shouldn't the Manor have recalibrated by now?"

"It mostly has," said 432. "It's still a bit wonky in parts, but we're lucky that the temporal dissonance isn't as bad as it could be. I think you just hit a hotspot or something."

The boy groaned. "Lucky me." He threw himself into a chair that had appeared out of nowhere and sat slouched in a way that most people with a spine could not. Maria looked at Simon, who shrugged. This was new territory for both of them.

Maria slowly made her way over to the boy. Her ankle twinged as she sank down to the boy's level and she tried not to fall on her ass as a result.

"Bored, huh?" she asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

He glanced at her suspiciously. "I don't trust you," he said bluntly.

Simon made a choking noise. The boy had essentially said what many cases only implied. This one, however, was fearless enough to say it out loud.

"And why's that?" Maria asked, at a loss.

"Because if you look at your track record with us, historically, y'all suck," said the boy in a matter-of-fact way.

"Really?" Maria asked.

He nodded. "Well, for one, when my mother died, the CPS in my world tried to have me and Beyond separated."

Maria frowned. "That's... illogical," she said. "We usually try to keep siblings together, especially if they're able to support each other."

The boy shrugged. "Didn't stop that bitch Susan from trying."

"Oh, are we trash-talking that straight-up _whore_?" said Beyond from the comms.

"No, you're focusing on your task," said Flashpoint. "Bitch about her later."

"I still don't have a name for you," said Maria. "You got one, right?"

"Yeah. Don't know if I should tell you."

"Well, I mean, I'm from a different universe, and I doubt I'll see you again," said Maria. "What harm could it do?"

"A lot, actually," he said. He paused. "What the hell. It's Matt."

Maria smiled. "Nice to actually meet you, Matt. I'm sure you already know the usual questions."

"And I'm sure that you have to ask them anyway."

"That I do," said Maria. "How would you describe your relationship with people here?"

"They're like family," Matt said. "Sometimes literally. They're all kinda insane, in as good a way as possible. I wouldn't trade it for anything else."

"That's great that you feel that way, Matt," said Maria. "Have you ever been hurt here by someone, whether intentionally or unintentionally?"

"Define hurt," said Matt.

"Caused physical or emotional pain to you," said Maria.

"Oh, lots of times," said Matt. "We're training, and the only way you get better at hand-to-hand combat is to practice. If I didn't get a few bruises from that, I wouldn't be training. If I've gotten hurt, it wasn't for no reason. That doesn't sound good, I'll admit, but I don't know how to make it sound better."

"That's fine," Maria said. "If you had the choice, would you stay here?"

"Hell yes," said Matt. "No one here treats me like some stupid kid. I can make my own choices, within reason."

"One more," said Maria. "Do you feel safe here?"

"Honestly, I thought this place was impenetrable," said Matt. "Then me and the others were taken, and I got a rude wake-up call. But that was a real one in a million chance, and security has been upped. This place is safer than Fort Knox."

"But do you feel safe here?" pressed Maria.

"We're not supposed to feel safe anywhere," said Matt. "We can't afford to let our guard down. It gets people killed. But between you and me," he said, leaning forward, "I know this place is possibly the safest I'll ever be."

A static-filled whoop reached Maria's ears, and she shot to her feet, only to crumple on one side as a fiery lance of pain shot up her leg. Matt helped her to her feet as Beyond and 52 swung their way back up onto the balcony.

Maria looked down at her ankle. Oh. It wasn't supposed to look that way, was it?

"No, it is not," muttered 432. Maria hadn't realized that she had been speaking out loud.

"She needs medical attention," said Simon. "You guys have a doctor here or something?"

"Depends. Is Doc still pissed?" 432 looked to Flashpoint.

The older man nodded. "You'd be better off if you went to 917."

Simon slung her arm over his shoulder and took her weight from Matt, who was looking rather concerned.

432 looked up at the ceiling and said. "To 917, please." He opened the door and gestured for the two workers to follow him. "The Manor should bring us to 917 shortly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Romeo is based on Crowley in Good Omens. Yes, the "angel" may or may not be a Kryptonian *cough* Kal-El *cough cough*
> 
> Simon is very, very gay. He's based off my friend, but with a lot less glitter (don't ask).


	24. The Definition of Childsafe (Welcome to the Council of Nocturn Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending of the tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Yay! I like mega posting, it makes me feel productive.

Maria, Simon, and 432 made their way down a short hallway that most definitely hadn't been there before and opened another door into what looked like a small hospital. The most jarring thing was the fact that some of the beds' occupants seemed to be treating themselves. 

A woman stitched up a nasty-looking cut on her arm without flinching, pulling the thread through easily. A man dabbed at a bloody bruise on his forehead with a piece of gauze. 

Good God, this was _normal_?

They earned a few stares as they hobbled down the room, but nobody stopped them. 432 banged on another door. 

"Got one for you, 917," he called. "Ankle injury. Possibly fractured."

The door opened, and a man dressed in a simple black outfit (nothing like the heavy armor from before) opened the door wide and ushered them in. 

"Better than another gunshot wound, at least," he muttered. At 432's concerned glance, he waved his hand. "Beyond irritated the Commissioner _again_ ," he said. "I had to patch that up for him earlier this month."

"You know, I'm not even surprised," said 432. "This is Maria and Simon. They're from CPS. My world."

917 looked up at her from where he had been studying her ankle with a practiced eye. How many times had he looked over Matt's injuries? Maria resisted the urge to shudder. 

"Good news, it's not broken," he announced, leaning back. "Bad news, it's very badly sprained."

"Do you have a pair of crutches or something?" Maria asked weakly.

"Even better," 917 smiled reassuringly, and that was even more shocking. Every face she had seen, while not exactly _grim_ , hadn't been friendly. This guy looked like the barista who handed you your coffee and told you to have a good day and _meant_ it.

He lifted his hands and a soft green light flowed over his palms and wound around his fingers. Maria thought she would faint if not for Simon's steady hand on her back. 

"I have _magic_ ," he said, not even blinking when 432 muttered something that sounded like _I hate magic._

Maria stayed perfectly still as the green light (energy? magic?) flowed over her injured ankle. The swelling went down, the bruising faded, and the pain ceased. 917 took his hands away and she moved her foot around in amazement. 

"Cool, right?" he asked. "Now, even though it's healed, magic can be a bit tricky. Any activity you do should be light, so no running marathons, or you might have a relapse."

Maria nodded mutely. 

"And even the best magic isn't a patch on rest," he continued. "A lesson that most of these morons have _yet to learn_!" He raised his voice so it would carry out of the room that they were in.

"Sleep is for the weak and children!" someone else shouted back. 

917 rolled his eyes. "It was lovely to meet you all," he said, shaking Maria and Simon's hands. "I hope the rest of your visit goes well."

As 432 led them out of the area, Simon turned to him. "You mentioned something about a Doc. Who is that?"

"It's a long story," said 432. 

"We have nothing but time," challenged Maria. 

432 sighed. "I'm sure you're all aware that the Council of Nocturne is made up of different Bats from across the multiverse at this point, correct?" he asked. 

"You call yourselves the Council of Nocturne?" asked Simon.

"Would you prefer the Bat-Council?" he asked in a deadpan.

"Nevermind."

"It's not just Bruce Wayne who can take the Cowl," 432 continued. "Any member of the Wayne family can wear the mantle. Well, that's not entirely true," he cut himself off. "But then we'd be getting into the Clans, and that's just so _messy-_ "

"The _what_?" Maria asked. 

"Okay, okay," said 432, waving his hands. They stopped while he collected his thoughts. "So there are essentially three or four main 'families' that make up the vigilante network that originated in Gotham and in some cases, spread around the world. This is only in the universes with the largest amount of people in said network, and this doesn't apply to mine. If you barge in on wherever they work and say 'Hey, you're a vigilante,' they will have _very_ little idea of _what_ you're talking about."

Maria and Simon nodded. 

"The main groups in the very largest of universes are the Waynes, Kanes, Kyles, and Foxes," said 432. "They can vary, sometimes, with the size of the universe. They're all interconnected, so where each Clan ends and where another begins gets very fuzzy, especially when you consider that some members branch off and have their own groups that connect with other full Clans from other groups like the Assembly of Krypton. That's essentially what we have here, but with Superman. No, I don't know if the Superman from 432 is a member of the Assembly. You still following me?"

"Why do you call them Clans?" asked Simon

"Because, often, many members of the Clan will have a different last name. Adoption is rather commonplace, and even if they're not legally part of a family, they're still considered Clan," said 432. "It's very confusing at times, but you eventually get used to it.

"So, anyone from any of those Groups can hold the mantle of the Bat," said 432. "Often, it's from the Wayne Clan, but that's by no means a clear-cut rule. Because of this and other differences particular to the universe in question, you can often have Bruce Wayne's that don't hold the Cowl."

"Who _does_ hold the Cowl, then?" asked Maria, her tongue tripping slightly over the unfamiliar words. 

"It varies. And sometimes, nobody does. There is no Bat because there is no _reason_ for there to be a Bat in the first place. We have literally no idea how to predict if a universe will need one," said 432. "Call it a higher power or something, we just don't know."

"And is Doc in one of those worlds?" guessed Simon.

432 nodded. "Yes, he is. After the alleyway, he went to therapy, coped in a healthy way, went to medical school, and became a doctor."

Simon blinked. "That's... very normal, for someone who went to therapy in _Gotham_ ," he said. 

432 barked out a laugh. "He didn't!" he said. "He swallowed his pride and went to Metropolis! I'm actually pretty sure that's why he turned out normal."

That was... actually pretty concerning, for Maria. 

"Casual question, here," she said as they started to move again. "How many of you have actually _gone_ to therapy for things like depression or anxiety?"

432 blew out a breath. "Maybe... a few more than a dozen?" It sounded like he was guessing. 

"Out of?" Maria pressed. 

"A little less than a thousand?"

"That's a _terrible_ percentage," said Simon. 

"It's not for lack of trying," said 432. "over half of our total number have, at some point, tried therapy."

"Then what the hell happened?" asked Simon. 

"In more memorable instances, they tried to gaslight us into thinking that both Bruce Wayne and the Bat were made up in our mind, and suffice to say, we have enough of existential conundrums as it is."

"What the _fuck_ does that mean?"

"Oh, there are universes where Bruce Wayne snapped after the murder of his parents and Batman is, in fact, an insane fantasy," said 432 brightly, as if he wasn't discussing the possibility that his entire world was a figment of his imagination. "It's quite distressing to some of our members, and I would appreciate it if you didn't bring that up."

"What about others?" Maria asked. 

"I'm sure you're aware of how poorly mental illness is handled in Gotham," said 432. "Anxiety is not the same as psychosis, but in some worlds, Arkham is so overwhelmed with cases that they have to lump the two together. It does not end well."

"I can imagine," said Simon. 

"And in the worlds that give it an honest go, the people that truly want to actually talk about their issues, what keeps them up at night, they're so separated with how to world sees Wayne and the Bat that they just end up disassociating for hours afterward," said 432. 

"How?" asked Maria, morbidly fascinated. 

"Word association," said 432. "That's the most obvious one to tell what's at the forefront."

"Red," said Simon. 

"Roses for Wayne. He's a goddamn playboy, it makes sense," said 432. "Otherwise, it's blood. Or possibly the Joker's smile, depending on who you ask here."

"Why do you talk like you're two different people?" asked Simon. 

432 laughed. "That's the fucking question," he said. "I'm sure at this point you realize that what you see in the _Gazette_ isn't all that true, right?"

Maria nodded. "Frankly, I never believed that anyway," she said. "I feel like it never did mesh with what you did with the Wayne Foundation."

432 nodded. "That's a lot closer to what I actually want to do. Help Gotham. In whatever way I can."

They stopped. The hallway still looked the same, but 432 seemed to know where they were. 

"The Archives," he mused, seemingly to himself. "I wonder why you brought me here."

They filed into the room, lined with computer terminals. A low hum of electricity hung in the air and the temperature itself was higher from the sheer amount of machinery running in the space. 

"The whole collection of knowledge that the Council of Nocturne has to offer," said 432, gesturing at the vast expanse of metal. "I helped to sort it all out myself."

"Have there ever been conflicting timelines?" asked Simon, glasses reflecting the countless lights in the room. 

432 looked at him. "You catch on quick," he said. "Yeah, there have been some timelines that contradict each other. For instance," he said, crossing over to a computer and pointing at it, "we have at _least_ two Universes where the Axis powers won World War II."

Simon made a funny choking noise. "That can't be good," he said, in possibly the greatest understatement of the century. 

432 shook his head. "It's not. On the bright side, in one of those universes, we have a Bat who's planning to shoot the Füher in the dick. And then the head."

"What?" Maria asked. 

"Is that Flashpoint?" asked Simon.

432 laughed, quick and sharp. "No, but I'd bet my life that Flashpoint wants to help him. No one likes the Nazis. Not even other Nazis like Nazis."

Maria raised her eyebrow. "Are you saying he's a Nazi?"

She could see the glint of _fuCK_ in 432's eyes and felt a small amount of satisfaction that she had been able to catch him off-guard.

"It's more like he's undercover," said 432. "Believe it or not, many of us are actually Jewish, and in that universe, the new government took offense to that."

"Oh," said Simon. " _Oh_."

"Yes," continued 432, looking more solemn than ever. "And others. For various reasons."

"Where is he now?" asked Maria. 

"In his own universe, orchestrating the fall of the dictatorship that has a hold on the entire world," said 432. 

"Holy shit," said Simon. 

"Pretty much," said 432. 

"Have any of you... ever gone bad?" asked Maria, staring into steel-edged lights. 

"Yes," said 432, picking up a flash drive. "Their worlds had deteriorated so much because of it, this was essentially all we could document. And I doubt you want to get into nth metal and Cthulonic gods. That's actually why the Council was formed in the first place. To deal with whatever multi-dimensional threat decided to kick us in the balls this week."

"Did that happen... in our universe?" asked Maria, something very cold and unpleasant sitting in her stomach. 

432 let out a bitter laugh. "No, but it did affect it. Things went wrong. Blackouts around the globe, storms intensifying, a spike in infant mortality rate. Barbatos may have left our universe alone, but corruption spreads out from them like rot."

"That's actually terrifying," said Simon. 

"It was," murmured 432, turning the flash drive over in his hands. "It was a reminder of what we could do, when we were pushed. Desperate. When we allowed ourselves to be pushed over the edge."

432 gripped the flash drive so tightly that Maria feared it would break. 

"We call him Laughs." It was short, quiet. The shadows carved into 432's face, making him age years. "He's us. He's _me_. And so fucking twisted in the head that it hurts to say those words."

Steel entered his spine and he straightened, crossing the room to plug in the flash drive. 

Maria and Simon gaped and gasped as the visage took form. 

If Flashpoint and the others had been demons, this was the Devil incarnate. Maria could find no words that were adequate to describe either the figure on the screen or the horror she felt when she looked upon it. 

Spikes, chains, and a wide, wild, insane grin. It was a nightmare given form, and all Maria could do was stare in shock and horror. 

"Formerly known as Bruce Wayne, of Earth -22," said 432 in a sort of dull, hollow voice. "Now known as the Batman Who Laughs."

Simon didn't move even as Maria did, taking controlled, unwitting steps closer to the face. She could see the children ( _God_ , she was going to be _sick_ , this was her job, how could _he_ do that -) leashed by the chains, pale as the moon, teeth sharp and grin sharper, just as insane as their captor. 

"That's why we don't kill the Joker," said 432 as Maria stared in fascinated horror. "He's why."

The image snapped off and Maria and Simon shook themselves out of their reverie. 

"Why did you come here?" 432 asked, sounding very tired. Human. 

Maria was struck with the thought. Despite how very _remarkable_ all of them were, no matter how inhuman they looked, that's how they _wanted_ to be seen. 

"How many of you have powers?" Maria demanded. 

"That's not an answer-"

"Tell me."

432 looked at the ceiling for a second or two, puzzling it over. "Maybe around ten to fifteen percent of us," he said. "Why?"

"Does that affect your ability to protect people?" she asked. She was well aware that she was playing with fire at this point. 

"No, I should hope not," said 432.

"Would you ever willingly hurt someone?" she questioned. 

"You're going to have to rephrase that," said 432. "I punch crime in the face, it's kind of in the job description. But I get the idea. No, I would not."

"Do you have any reason to believe that any child would be in danger here?" she asked. 

"They wouldn't be in any more danger than they would be in a regular house," said 432. "Aside from putting pennies in the light sockets and taking a lighter to the curtains, they'd be fine."

"Would you ever take part in or perpetuate the actions taken by the man you just showed us?" asked Maria. The word _man_ left a bad taste in her mouth (that _thing_ was barely human), but she forced them out anyway. 

"Never." The word was solid stone, unmovable. 

"Then frankly," she said, gathering herself. "I don't see any reason to further infringe on your time."

432 cocked an eyebrow. "You're kidding," he said. "It can't be that simple."

"Well, we've spoken to - Matt, was it? - and he seems like a regular healthy kid. Enjoys scaring people a little too much, but we've all got our quirks," said Simon, rambling slightly. 

"That's great," said 432. "I'm glad we could get this cleared up."

Maria thought she could see his shoulders relax slightly as he said the words. 

"I hate to be a bother," she said, "but could we leave this room? I'd rather not think about what I've seen here."

"Amen," muttered Simon. 

"Of course," said 432. He stared up at the ceiling once more. "To the exit, please."

"Hey, why did you talk to the ceiling?" asked Simon. "I've been meaning to ask."

"Oh, the Manor is basically sentient," said 432 brightly, then gave a Sensible Chuckle^TM as Maria and Simon looked around wildly. "Don't worry, if the Manor didn't like you, you'd know."

"That is the opposite of reassuring," said Simon.

They made it out of the front entrance (if you could call it that) with little more incident. The team of fifteen (oh, Maria had forgotten all about them, whoops) was nowhere to be seen. The guard at the door was still there, and gave a little wave-salute thing to Maria and Simon as they passed. 

"I sent the Idiot Brigade back on home," he said. "They weren't doing anything useful. Oh, and one also shot at me."

"What-" said Simon. 

The guard waved a hand. "Oh, it didn't do anything. At worst, it was mildly inconvenient."

The lenses went away and his eye flickered green and inhuman. Maria almost swallowed her tongue. 

Yeah, she wasn't going to be coming back here any time soon. 

Like most people, she found that with the Council of Nocturne, once was enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof I suck at endings. Sorry that it got so philosophical. 
> 
> See ya whenever I drag myself up from the depths next!


	25. You'll Never Guess Who I Met At Work Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Karens, cashiers, funfetti brownie mix, and Covid. Not specifically in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof it's so late I'm so sorry happy beleated everything.

Sorry if there are any typos, it’s just because I’m howling with laughter. I can’t breathe.

Okay, so I woke up at four thirty in the goddamn morning, and had a brainblast. 

_Anti Maskers would be in hell in Gotham._

Let’s go through this. 

Even before Coronavirus (if it did theoretically happen), I would bet you anything that Wayne Enterprises would set to work on creating masks that filter out the various toxins that the Rogues Gallery uses. And, with the vast majority of Gotham having been used to canceled days from chemical attacks, everyone is fed up. Indeed, people have probably braved the outside with like, scuba gear in an attempt to find Jonathan Crane and flip him off themselves. 

So with the creation of these masks, most of everyone is like, “Hell yeah, we can go about our daily business! Of course we’ll wear these! And they’re _free_ because we have the _nice_ multimillionaire, suck it Metropolis!”

But the thing is, _they’re not required._ It becomes somewhat of a trend to see what ridiculous thing you could use to filter your air when the wrath of Poison Ivy hits. Gotham, being Gotham, turned what usually was a repetitive nightmare into something rather fun. And that’s the difference between Covid masks and Gotham Fuckery™ masks. 

When the pandemic hit America, Gotham was the first thing on everyone’s mind. Because _everyone_ in America remembers all the various and _fantastic_ shitshows that have gone down in that area, including Chemo, the Cataclysm, the Clench, and No Man’s Land. 

Some people in Gotham, having heard of a new and awful virus, started wearing the Gotham Fuckery™ masks right away. The saying in Gotham isn’t _better safe than sorry,_ it’s _better safe than_ **_dead._ **

But then, the people of Gotham were always stubborn. And some people think that if a nuke, a previous pandemic, a huge earthquake, and the government just _walking away_ from the burning dumpster fire that was Gotham at that point didn’t wipe them out, _Covid fucking 19_ couldn’t do it either. 

They are incorrect, and do you know who knows that for a fact? 

The Narrows. 

The Narrows have seen more illness and disease than anyone, and they _know from experience_ how fast it can spread in cramped conditions. And Gotham is nothing if not cramped. 

Covid hits. Wayne Enterprises has already started the race on the vaccine _and_ for more effective masks, because they are a world-wide corporation, and their employees are at risk. Gotham, as well as the area around it, is surprisingly the most prepared for it. 

Everyone basically thought they were idiots for preparing so early, but now they’re watching while hundreds get it and Gotham’s like, “This was not our first rodeo.” 

So like, even though Covid is nowhere near as deadly as the Clench, Gotham (including the villains) knows _exactly_ what to do. What’s more, they’re going to to it more than ever, because a _lot of fucking people have died._

Scarecrow (a doctor in Psychology, but with an impressive knowledge of the human physiology and immune system so he can better construct his fear toxins) breaks out of Arkham _just_ to make a video on how viruses and vaccines work, because he may like putting the fear of God in people, he _absolutely hates_ the antivaxx movement. 

It’s taken professionally, it’s informative, and it has the same vibe as Bill Nye’s video where he lights a globe on fire and shouts “The planet’s on fucking _fire!_ ” 

He sends it to every major news platform and social media site. 

Poison Ivy is holed up in Robinson Park, like in No Man’s Land, making it into a safe zone for anyone. She, at some point, also creates a video decrying many things, including “safe” vegan diets for pets, planned obsolescence, and essential oils that “cure” things like ADHD and autism. Harley is with her, and she _is_ a psychologist, explaining that, yes, ADHD and autism are genetic, real medical conditions, and if you spray your hyperactive kid with lavender oil, all you will get is a hyperactive kid that smells like lavender. 

“ _I_ _’m fuckin’ part plant. I talk to them,_ ” she says, raising her arms. “ _I would know if fucking balsa wood could cure cancer._ ”

Batman does not come after them. Why?

“Because they have a point,” he says, deadass, to a shaking reporter clad in a double layer of regular masks. This isn’t just for the pandemic, Gotham air is notoriously shitty and this intrepid reporter doesn’t feel like dying from clown gas. 

People actually _go_ to Gotham to get medical treatment, PPE, and for the more at-risk people, find somewhere that is the Fort Knox of quarantine. 

Unfortunately, when some people outside of Gotham hear “Gotham had no Covid, what a miracle,” what they _think they hear_ is “Gotham has no Covid restrictions, everything is fine as it is.”

Which is incorrect, the reason Gotham has no Covid cases (other than those being treated in hospitals for it) is because the restrictions are tighter than a noose around a prisoner’s neck. 

So when it inevitably happens that the idiots come flocking to Gotham expecting no mask requirements, everything to be open, and no social distancing at all. It’s summer, and they’re expecting a tropical getaway. After all, Metropolis has such nice weather and they’re just across that bay, right? Right?

 _Wrong,_ bitches. This is Gotham. 

Gotham is a ghost town, as much as a major city can be. Even though it’s July, it’s in the low sixties, and more often than not, it will feel colder. People have sweatshirts and coats and literally the only one who would be wearing a bathing suit would be Mister Freeze.

Everyone is suspicious. Everyone is _angry,_ it seems. No, actually, everyone’s being quite welcoming in the circumstances, intimidation is just how they show affection. 

And - gasp - worst of _all,_ everyone is wearing _masks._ They are _required_ to. 

Outsiders groan and complain and bitch and whine about it, but they accept it and move on. Same shit, different day. That’s life. 

But it builds. Quietly. Slowly. 

Until some middle aged white suburban mom in line in Giant with two kids who’s probably an HOA member in her hometown is politely but firmly told that “Ma’am, masks are required by city ordinance and store policy. Please put one on, or I cannot serve you.”

Now, “middle aged white suburban mom in line in Giant with two kids who’s probably an HOA member in her hometown” is very hard to type, so let’s just call this _lovely_ woman Karen, okay? 

Karen, being the rational adult woman that she is, loses her shit at this poor teenager (let’s call them Steven) in front of her kids, the other mask wearing people in the store, native Gothamites (you can tell the difference because of the handy-dandy WE masks that the others haven’t bothered to pick up because they think you need to pay for them), and all the other cashiers. 

“How _dare you!_ ” she fumes. “You’re all _sheep_ that _Wayne_ makes money off of because you’re all too _retarded_ to figure out the truth!”

(Okay, full stop here. So, fun fact: I was recently shopping in Giant with my brother, and we were in the checkout when the woman in front of us started screeching like a pterodactyl. Karen, with her two kids chilling in the absolutely enormous cart that they had picked up (it was one of them fancy ones, the ones that are decorated to look like a car - this one was an eye-searing shade of hot pink), was unleashing her fury into the completely unimpressed looking cashier. She did, in fact, call all of the people in the store who were wearing masks retarded, we all thoroughly enjoyed watching the police drag her out. They were actually pretty cool, they paid for our groceries because we were next in line. This story is based off of you, Karen in Giant.)

The people who are not from Gotham look uncomfortable. One older gentleman mutters “Oh, free entertainment,” and shuffles closer with his pasta box. He has seen eight of these fights break out and he has been vastly amused by all of them. 

There are people holding other people back from leaping at the woman because:

1\. She insulted Bruce Wayne. You don’t _do_ that, because Bruce Wayne is, rather understandably, well-liked in Gotham.

2\. She used the R - word. Also, quite understandably, you don’t make fun of or belittle people who aren’t neuronormative. Not only is it trashy and wrong, Harley Quinn will come and vandalize your house. Batman will not stop her. He will _join_ her.

3\. She implied that Gothamites are stupid. Maybe they’re just petty, but this is their dumpster fire of a city, goddammit, and they’re _proud of it._

Steven the Cashier is unfazed. He once sold graham crackers to Two-Face, he’s not bothered by this lady. 

“Ma’am,” he says calmly. “There is a global pandemic. Please put a piece of breathable cloth over your face for three minutes and leave. That is all that I am asking.”

“My _children_ are anxious to get _home_ and _you’re holding us up!_ ” she shrieks. Steven flinches at the volume. She thinks that is a sign of weakness. She is wrong. 

Her children, perhaps of the ages of four and six, are sitting calmly in the cart, watching with very little interest. The older one is drawing. The younger one is eating applesauce. Neither appear to be in any distress. 

People are filming now. Mostly for posterity. Steven the Cashier remains calm. His voice has not been raised once. “Ma’am, if you just put a mask on, we can-”

“Oh, _I’m sorry,_ ” the noxious woman says mockingly. “I can’t _hear you through your mask_.”

“Ma’am with all due respect, I know you can hear me perfectly well-”

She leans forward and coughs on him. 

Dead. 

Silence. 

A woman breaks free of her girlfriend’s grip and marches up to the woman. She’s a good foot taller than Karen and probably knows how to use a knife. Most people in Gotham do. She yanks her mask down and looks her dead in the eye. 

“I have lived in Gotham my entire life,” she says, dead serious. “You don’t even want to _know_ the shit that’s been in our air, the poisons that we’ve been breathing in for _years._ Fear toxin’s probably ingrained in our lungs right now.”

Karen is shaking. The other woman does not back down. 

“And, lady? I am _this_ close to just coughing in your face, just to see what the fuck would kill you first. So unless you want to see your deepest fears writhing in the shadows, _put your fucking mask on._ ”

The woman backs away. Someone silently pays for their groceries. The girlfriend is almost in tears with how happy she is that she is dating her significant other. 

Credit where credit’s due, Karen pulls herself together for one final card that she had yet to play, and until this point, has always proven effective. 

“This is _discrimination_ , and I will be calling the _police_ to report this violation of my Constitutional rights,” she says. 

(In two weeks, Two-Face will release a video explaining how no, it’s not violating your Constitutional rights to be told to wear a mask, you’re just an asshole.)

Old Pasta Man begins to laugh quietly. Everyone else familiar with the GCPD does too. 

Karen dials 911. Her shaken smug look returns, only to be melted away and replaced with confusion. 

“Ma’am, if you want to talk to an actual person the quickest, press four for ambiguous screams,” says Steven helpfully. 

Dumbfounded, she presses four. 

A beat of silence. 

“Hi, yes, I’d like to report a violation of my Constitutional rights as per-”

She’s on speaker. Everyone can hear. 

“ _Oh, God,_ ” says the dispatcher. “ _Gordon, we have another one!"_

“Excuse me-” Karen starts to say. 

“ _God fucking dammit,”_ the Police Commissioner of Gotham City says. “ _Now I owe the kevlar bastard twenty bucks.”_

“ _Them’s the breaks, Jimbo!_ ” shouts another, unrecognizable voice that is vehemently cheery. 

“I _s_ **_he_ ** _doing anything today?"_ Gordon asked. 

“ _Of course, but that won’t stop him,_ ” said the dispatcher. They turned their attention back to the caller, who was most likely feeling more confused by the second. “ _Ma’am, someone is on their way to resolve the situation.'_

They hung up before Karen could respond. “Rude,” she huffed. She looked at Steven smugly. “You’re going to jail,” she informed him smugly. 

Steven, of course, knows that he probably isn’t going to be locked away. But Old Pasta Man begins outright cackling, and pays for his pasta. 

“You’re gonna have a good day kid,” he says as he passes. “Say hi to Gotham’s finest for me, will ya?”

To the woman, he says, “You know, you’re pretty lucky that they didn’t send the Bat.”

Without a single iota of doubt, she replies loftily, “That Batman thing isn’t real.”

Steven chuckles. 

One night, Robin had needed emergency cat food. However, Robin was tiny and was not allowed to drive. And that’s how he had faced down the Dark Knight at two thirty-three in the morning, buying cat food for a yowling bundle of fur in Robin’s arms. 

( _He named it Steven,_ reads a note he finds in his apartment later. He isn’t sure whether to be flattered or terrified.)

Gotham’s finest, as it turns out, is _Bruce fucking Wayne,_ walking into Giant ready to give the biggest of smackdowns imaginable. He definitely walked straight out of a meeting for this. 

Karen has her head so far up her own ass that she doesn’t recognize him at first. 

He does, however, recognize the woman that threatened Karen earlier. It is his cousin, Kate Kane, and she is searching for the seemingly-mythical Funfetti brownie mix that Renee has promised her. 

“You are coming to family brunch on Sunday, whether you like it or not,” she calls over to him. “You’re the only person who’s actually decent enough to stand up to Great Aunt Agatha.”

“Oh my God, she’s not dead yet?” Bruce Wayne asks. “Goddammit, it’s like she’s the Terminator but racist.”

“I know, right? And _apparently,_ there’s such a thing as _Funfetti brownie mix-_ ”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Karen interrupts, rather rudely. “This is the woman that threatened me. Take her away!”

The people in the store are actually taken aback by this woman’s stupidity. God, just how far down did the rabbit hole go for this one? Not even Jervis Tetch would want to find out at this rate. 

He takes it in stride and laughs. “Uh, no. That’s not what I’m here for.” He pulls out a WE mask and hands it to her. “It is this store’s policy as well as city ordinance to wear a mask. If you do not, you will be arrested. And in Gotham, that takes one hell of a long time. So, I’d _suggest”_ his voice drops and eyes flash. There is something suddenly quite unnerving about this all. “That you’d comply and return home as soon as possible.”

Karen, miraculously, puts on the mask. She is silent and respectful. She pays for her groceries and finally, finally, exits the store. 

Bruce Wayne turns to Steven the Cashier, who is slightly shaken by all that has happened. 

“By the way, your student loan debts are paid,” he said casually. 

“I’m not even in college,” stuttered Steven. 

“Doesn’t matter. They are now,” he said. “Also, if you ever get tired of being yelled at by people like her, give this number a call and something will work out.” He slid a business card over. Steven took it with numb fingers. 

He turns to the grocery store at large. “All of your groceries are paid for today,” he announces. He turns to his cousin. “Yours too but I also want a funfetti brownie because Alfred would be terrified and I don’t think that’s an emotion I’ve ever seen him have before.”

Kate salutes him and he flips her off, walking down the row of checkout lanes and just. Putting stacks of money that he somehow produces from his coat. There is more than he should be able to carry. Is he a walking ATM? No one knows. 

He’s walking out of the store when he pulls out his phone and calls Alfred. 

“You’ll never guess who I ran into today-”

The doors shut behind him. 

The rest of Steven’s shift is nowhere near as exciting as those last thirty to forty-five minutes had been. The business card weighs heavy in his pocket. 

At the end of his shift, he’s outside. The card is for Wayne Enterprises, specifically, for Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne just handed him free college, a job, and a direct line to him. 

_Fortune favors the bold, Stevie,_ he thinks to himself, but before he dials the number, he decides to call his mother first. She’ll be worried about him. But he had news. 

“Hey, Mom,” he says into the receiver, memorizing the number on the business card before stuffing it back into his pocket. “You’ll never guess who I met at work today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steven the Cashier may or may not make a return appearance based on the reception to this chapter.


	26. Wolf Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary McGinnis had given to Gotham, over and over again. 
> 
> She would not give her sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha let's take Terry's other parent and kill her off for feelings
> 
> I'm a goddamned genius. 
> 
> I worked really super-duper hard on this, guys, so please comment and tell me what you think. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Mary did not know when it started. Was it when he met Wayne, when he took that job? Was it when her husband was killed? Was it when he was born? 

Terry had always been  _ other.  _ There was nothing wrong with him, mind you, nothing at all, and if anyone suggested otherwise Mary would be the first one going for them, but still. He had something that Matt never did, a vigor that her youngest lacked. Not in energy no, but just with life itself. 

A pervading sense of  _ strangeness _ when he first toddled up to her, bright, intense blue eyes that neither Mary nor Warren have given him, tearing right through her and into her soul. Every 100% on any test, every award. Every shouting match when his grades started to slip, every time he slammed the door to his room. 

That was not Terry. 

That was not her son. 

And somehow, it was. Somehow, it was  _ Terry _ , who grew up quickly and growing angrier and angrier. Dana had grounded him somewhat, but he was a teenager, and romance for them was whirlwind and fleeting. Mary could not fault him for his nature. 

Somehow, it was Terry getting cuts and sprained wrists and black eyes from street brawls. Somehow, it was her eldest sitting silently on the kitchen counter, eating warmed-up leftovers because he was not there for dinner with the rest of them. Somehow, it was Terry shouting through watery eyes and medication-dulled pain that he “had a reason, Mom, I did,  _ please -  _ ”

Somehow, he can never quite articulate  _ why. _

And then his father died. 

And everything that Terry had held close to his chest, every punch never thrown, every curse never spat, all for the sake of Mary’s well-being, came out with his anguish. It was her son, grieving with a pain that she could not take away from him, riding away on his cycle to… do what, exactly? Fight? Get revenge? Mary does not know. And while one son may be out of her reach, she still has another who needs her just as much. 

Suddenly, it is Terry who is coming back bruised and battered and more determined than ever before, and suddenly Mary sees this image of a grown man in every age that she has ever seen him. Blue eyes bright and hard and full of a fire that would burn anything to ash. 

It scares her a little. 

It is Terry, who is acting secretive and cautious and impulsive at the same time, and it is Terry who is locking Mary and Matt out even more. It is Terry who is keeping secrets and getting into trouble with the police, and he was always troubled, but it had never come to this. 

And then Wayne came to her house, and something deep in the back of her mind sprouted into life when Mary met Wayne’s crystalline gaze, unnerving and unsettling somehow. After a cryptic exchange that she figured that she would never be able to decipher, Terry had a job. He seemed more relaxed, at ease, and there was a light of challenge in him now, like he had picked himself up after the world had knocked him down and was now asking “What’s next?”

Mary hoped, Mary prayed, that she had her sharp and bright and kind and funny son back, as much as he could make it. He would never crack terrible puns with his father again. He would never scramble to avoid doing chores with his brother. Life had warped him, and that was natural. That was okay. Mary would accept that, because that was her son. 

Terry was never the one with an obsession with the Bat of Gotham. Mary had grown up in the prime of the legend who had dropped off of the face of the Earth. She had grown up being Robin, and later, Batgirl, for Halloween, and it seemed that Matt had inherited her fascination. 

But still, they seemed to bond over it, teasing each other back and forth in good nature. Terry seemed to harbor an inside joke that only he was aware of. He moves with easy and alien grace now, and lightly twists out of unwanted touches. He is like smoke, barely there, always drifting away, carried by the wind. 

He has wolf teeth and lion strength, and it carries him even more than the wind. His words and eyes are sharper than razors, and Mary can tell that he often has to dull them for the sake of others. He is fighting, constantly, constantly fighting, even when he is in no danger, and Mary aches to know what her son is experiencing. 

He still comes home with bruises. She worries. Matt is unconcerned, because as far as he is aware, his older brother has returned, and the stranger with the cold eyes and the closed door is gone. Matt is happy, and she tries to be happy as well, but there is that sense of  _ other _ that keeps creeping back upon her. Terry is fine. He assures her this, even as Mary can see the tell-tale sign of makeup covering bruises. He tells her that he is alright, even as he spends more and more time in Wayne Manor, far away from her and where she can protect him. 

He lies through his teeth even as he tells Mary he loves her. 

There is skipped school. There are drugs. And there is Terry, stalwart against whatever she says to him, unchangeable as Fate itself. He protests. He sneaks out. He falls asleep when he is in school. And yet, his grades have picked up. And yet, he has more energy. And yet, he is eating healthier. 

What is the cost of all of this? What will it come to?

The one and only time that Mary cannot tell that he is lying is with the TV program. He gets a dark look on his face, a fleeting shadow of something much darker. Azure eyes flash with fire and his back straightens with steel. Even Matt notices the change. 

This scares her. 

They laugh, moments later, when Terry tells them the truth, oh, God, the truth. It was staring her in the face all along, it was, and she was too blind to see it. It is funny, almost, that the symptoms of Batman were the symptoms of teenage rebellion. It was just like Terry to throw himself headfirst into it, as well. And when she puts Matt to bed, and hours later, Terry comes slinking back home, a wardog licking his wounds, she is there. 

Mary is there for her son, because she is his mother, otherness and anger and secrets be damned, and she will always be there for her sons, no matter what. Terry is exhausted. She can see it in the lines of his body, the fraying terror knotted by adrenaline. And that is when she remembers that for how confident and headstrong and independent he is, he is only sixteen. 

The weight of the world is not meant for shoulders that young.

She does not like it. She does not support it. But someone needs to do it, and while she wishes that it was someone, anyone, other than Terry, she is a realist. Who else would throw themselves into the duty of the cowl as thoroughly as he? Who else would be stubborn enough to do what he did, night after night? 

As much as she (and even Terry) hated to admit it, Mr. Wayne did well with her son. Of course, that was not before she put the fear of God into him for roping her son into this. He would be treading warily around her from now on, and he would be wise to do so. Because even with all the horrors that the city has to offer, nothing is more terrifying than a mother’s rage. 

Matt will never know, not as long as she breathes. She has lost her husband to Gotham’s underworld, and has lost her eldest to the siren call to fight against it. She does not know what it is about Gotham that makes it leave widows and orphans in its wake, but Matt is  _ hers. _ Matt will never be Gotham’s, no matter how the city may rage or he may yearn. 

Until Matt begins to show the same fire that Terry does. And she wonders if Matt had it too, all along, and it was just that Terry let his grow and grow into a flashy and uncontrollable wildfire. Then, it is Matt who is coming home with black eyes that are not from accidents at karate (Terry cannot teach Matt, not yet, because Matt always has an inquisitive mind, and he would ask some uncomfortable questions rather quickly). Suddenly, it is Matt who is getting suspensions for punching bullies, and she would be proud of him for at least punching the right kinds of people, but still.

He and Terry shared whispered conversations and inside jokes, and she always had a hard time understanding their humor, but this? This is indecipherable. There are small gifts, notes, and while she is glad they are getting along, Mary is borderline-paranoid that Terry is unwittingly luring Matt after him into Gotham’s underworld. Terry laughs away her concerns and she tries to act like it does not hurt her that her worries are so easily dismissible. 

Were not her worries right about him?

* * *

Life goes on. Terry is in Junior year. Matthew is in middle school, and fumbling his way through social circles anxiously. It was strange. She had thought that Matt took after Terry in not giving a single thought to how other people thought of him. And to an extent, that was true. But that was before Warren, before Matt knew  _ something.  _ Now, Matt is desperate to prove himself, even though she has told him that he never has to prove his worth. 

Terry is of no help. Yes, he was awkward and gangly and he ended up burning some of the shirts that he wore to school, but he was quick-witted enough to avoid verbal jabs, and just plain  _ quick _ enough to avoid physical ones. Of course, that was before he grew into his height and started dealing blows of his own. She signed Matt up for karate when she could, because Gotham is a dangerous city, even with her eldest on the prowl. But Matt views it less as self-defense and more as showmanship, which, granted, it partly is. 

But there are things that Terry is that Matt is not, and confident enough to dump a trash can on top of his bullies’ heads from the roof of the school is one of them. Terry attempts to help by cutting down on the time that Matt spends alone, after one particularly bad day when Matt came home with a black eye, a swollen lip, and a cut on his cheek. Terry’s eyes had flashed with blue fire, one that Mary was familiar with by now, and she took Terry aside to expressly forbid him from going out and beating up a bunch of kids (“Teenagers, mom, they are  _ teenagers _ , that is  _ assault-” _ ). 

Terry drops off Matt at school and at one point walks him to his class, even though it would make him late. He picks up Matt on his way back from the high school, leaving Mary to work from home and bite her nails in the silence of her empty home. She wants to help. She wants to protect her boys more than anything. But Terry is beyond her protection, and Matt is in the stage where he is breaking free from under her wing. Mary cannot fault him for his nature. Her boys are becoming their own adults, and that terrifies her more than anything else in her life. 

But still. She cannot help but smile when she hears the front door open, rising from her desk to see Matt and Terry walking through the open door, slushies in hand and crowing with laughter. They are the picture of brotherly camaraderie, laughing and shoving teasing, and it is refreshingly  _ normal.  _

And then she sees the slightly reddened skin in the faint shape of a hand around Terry’s neck, recent and raw, not covered by makeup, and the bags under his eyes. Someone had seized him by the throat recently (not last night, when he was Batman and invincible, but when he was Terry and a  _ teenager-)  _ and he fought them off. 

And then she sees the darkening handprint of bruises around Matt’s arm, half-hidden under his sleeve, and the redness of his eyes and nose. Someone had grabbed him roughly around the arm, someone much bigger than him, even larger than Terry (and he was nearing six feet), and Matt had shed tears. 

Mary’s blood boiled. Gotham would not have her youngest, and neither would anyone else. That was her promise. That was what she kept close to her heart, near the hole where Warren was supposed to be. That was what let her sleep when she knew Terry was out there risking his life.  _ This is my promise, Gotham, _ she had shouted in her head to an uncaring city.  _ And you may break me, but you will not break this. _

When she asks what happened, oh-so-casually, the joyous mood disappears like smoke from a candlewick. Terry looks away with those brilliant eyes. Matt looks down, almost seeming guilty. Terry tears his gaze away from the window to stare at Matt in pure concern, like whatever Matt did or did not do does not deserve his look of total contrition. It does not matter. She already knows the answer anyways. A mother’s intuition bore her out before and it will bear her again. 

She is reaching for the phone to dial either the GCPD, CPS, or maybe the school when her wrist is caught in an iron grip. It is Terry, eyes alight with blue fire, and as soon as they make eye contact ( _that is_ _ not not **not** _ _Terry_ , a small part of her whisper-screams in fear, and she shoves it down, but not fast enough), he snatches his grip away like he touched a hot skillet. Matt is watching with wide and uncomprehending eyes, and though he may have seen more than most people, Mary is reminded once more of just how  _ young _ her children are. 

_ Tell me, _ she wants to say,  _ tell me what you will do to them, because I will inflict it tenfold. _ But there is something inside her, a tiny, minuscule part of her that Gotham has not touched. Warren called it her conscious. It sits heavy in her gut, and it is uncomfortable with this casual threat of violence, even for someone who hurt her children. Gotham has taken her son and her husband. It is only natural that Gotham would take her too. 

“They are  _ not _ a problem anymore,” Terry says, low and dark and  _ angry _ , and it is two versions melded seamlessly into one another until they create something new. It is flashfire Terry and cold and secretive Terry and together they create something that screams  _ danger. _ Mary nods, quiet, and steps back from the phone. She is reminded of it later when they are watching the evening news and on comes a segment about a hospitalized teacher, now charged with child abuse. She glances over to Terry on the couch and finds her two boys sitting curled together in a way they have not since Terry was small and Matt even smaller. Blue eyes flicker to hers then back to the screen, and the Bat of Gotham settles into a more comfortable position on the couch. 

* * *

Mary has a cough, and it does not go away. She thinks it is nothing, until the three of them are watching a movie on the newly-dubbed Family Night. It is a cheesy comedy, and the jokes are so bad they are funny. She is laughing and then her laughter dissolves into a violent coughing fit. She excuses herself to hopefully hock out whatever was in her throat. She is deeply concerned when her spit comes out bloody. But Terry is there, offering her a glass of water, and Matt is calling that he has made more popcorn, and she can not find it in herself to ruin the good mood. 

This is the beginning of the end. 

She makes excuses. Dry throat, cold, allergies. Is it simple denial? Is it out of fear? She does not know. Neither does Matt and Terry, and she intends to keep it that way. Terry has the weight of Gotham (and maybe the world, after all, the Justice League has taken notice that their urban legend has returned) on his shoulders, and Matt has the weight of his own self-doubt and the opinions of his peers on his. They do not need to carry this as well. 

There is pain in her chest. Her breath shortens. She remembers the disease that took her grandfather, that took her uncle. Mary’s fears are confirmed when she visits the doctor’s office. She takes her sons (brave boys, both of them) to their favorite places, determined to let them have one last good day before she drops this bombshell on them. It is when they are eating nachos at a restaurant (the best in Gotham, they tell her, and she has not eaten enough nachos to say for herself) that she tells them. 

(Cancer, that damn dragon, cancer, breathing rot into her lungs and stealing her breath.)

They drive home in silence. Terry goes to his room and silently closes the door, anger absent in his movements. He is not angry. He is simply in shock. In time, she knows, flashfire Terry will come and he will attempt to face the problem like it is something he can beat into submission. Matt clings to her like she might disappear, eyes roving her face like he never wants to forget it. Her heart aches a few hours later when she hears carefully muffled sobs coming from behind Terry’s door. She calls him out sick preemptively. 

The next morning, Matt goes to school without Terry. Mary drops him off and he does not even protest when she kisses him on the cheek. When she returns home, Terry is downstairs making breakfast with the television on. Terry’s eyes are red from tears and his knuckles are bruised. The screen shows two reporters grinning blandly above a headline proclaiming that the Bat of Gotham had a particularly successful night. As if he was not someone in the city, taking out grief on those who distributed it. She wraps her arms around him silently. He leans into it, for once. He returns to his room in silence. 

Wayne calls. She ignores it. Dana comes by to visit Terry and drops off a container of pasta made by her mother, once she learned of the news. Susanna was always a good woman. Mary hugs Dana tightly and directs her to Terry’s room. She does not ask her why she is not in school. She does not have to. Her hands shake as she washes dishes, a normal action, but the looming countdown ticks deafeningly in her head. There is always a chance that she will survive, that she will slay that dragon. But this is Gotham, and though it seems impossible that a city dictates fate, there are no happy endings in Gotham. Not for the Waynes, and certainly not for her. 

_ Damn you, _ she wants to scream to the sky, all her rage and pain and fear that her boys will be left alone in this world coming out from her mouth.  _ Damn you for taking Warren. Damn you for taking me. Have they not suffered enough? Do you not yet have enough blood on your hands? Damn you to the darkest corner of hell.  _

Wayne calls again, and something in her makes her press Accept. Terry is not one to talk easily. God, she knows that well enough from the turbulent years of before. But it was once Wayne’s job to know things, and she sees that Batman was not called the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing. It adds yet another crack in her heart to hear him explain how unfocused Terry was, how chaotic. How elementally  _ angry  _ he was. He asks what is wrong. And she tells him. 

He is silent. And then, hanging in that instant of eternity, he asks, “Small cell?” 

Mary shakes her head, before realizing that he cannot see her and replies. It is one small mercy that she has been afforded, a 24% chance of survival if it has spread. But still. Those are odds that she would not like to play. Wayne lets out a slow breath and she remembers the stories her mother would tell her of the Waynes. How they helped Gotham. How they paid the price for it. Of the boy who grew up without parents in the mansion on the hill, who left and came back as he so chose. And it is her worst nightmare that this will be horribly similar to the fate set out for her sons. 

( _ Wayne has been through this,  _ her instincts tell her, and they have not been wrong yet.)

_ Damn you, _ she thinks quietly to Gotham once more.  _ Damn you, for creating your soldiers and then tossing them away like playthings. Damn you for this endless war.  _ And she swears that the ground under her very feet shifts and groans. A thrill of fear goes through her, but she stays. For Warren, for Dana, for Terry and Matt, for simple spite. She has made her promise, and she will stand by it. She will not let Gotham take any more of her. She has given enough. 

She accepts his help.

* * *

Cancer cuts a swath through her spirit and turns her body into a battlefield. It eats away at her, making her waste away. Radiation goes through her, the scorched earth tactic at its finest. Terry is grim and unrelenting. He has not been able to find a way to fight this battle for her yet, though that does not stop him from trying, nor does it stop him from taking Gotham's crime by storm, as if by clearing the streets he can clear her lungs. Matt has only clung to her tighter, using her as an anchor, and Mary fears what will happen to him if she loses this fight. 

With Wayne’s support (the hospitals do not question, they have long since stopped asking about why Bruce Wayne does what he does) they get the best treatment money can buy. It damages her body, even as the cancer shrinks in response to the ruthless treatment. Mary is tired most days and can barely walk others. Sometimes, she swears, that even when she is not in Gotham, she can still hear the city shifting slowly, searching for other spirits to break and other souls to claim. 

Her hair thins and her skin bruises easily. She has fevers more often than not, and some days, it is all Matt and Terry can do to get her to eat. The pain in her chest rises and ebbs and her fingers prick and twinge. All of these are normal, says the doctor, little more than a stranger with a fancy piece of paper. It is hell, but so is Gotham, and if Terry can face all the monsters that lurk in the dark, she can face the monsters that lurk in her own body. 

Throughout it all, throughout the treatments and travel and tears, Matt and Terry scribble down answers to homework and study for tests. They are still taking classes, and while they have to sometimes mail their work back to the school, they will be  _ damned _ if they do not have all A’s. They adapt and adjust, and it is in their nature to do so.

All along with this, Terry teaches Matt. At first, it was a distraction from… well, everything. But Matt proved to be a quick study, and it grounded him. It became a common sight to see Terry guiding Matt through katas, correcting form here and there. Terry assured her that these were things that Matt should have learned in his class. Unfortunately, it seems that Matt is sorely lacking in this education. 

If Terry is flashfire, Matt is glacier ice, slow and deliberate and unstoppable. When he falters during a kata, he resets and starts again until he has it down completely. With each new set of moves mastered, his confidence grows. Mary is glad to see her youngest bloom. Terry is as well. Yet even as her sons grow stronger, Mary grows ever weaker. 

Her instincts are always right. That is part and parcel of being a mother. 

So when the fated appointment finally arrives when they are delivered bad news for the first time, after months and months, Mary is not surprised. This is why she left Matt at home, so she could tell it to him, instead of some blank stranger in a white coat. But Terry, seated next to her in the uncomfortable chair that is probably older than Mary, is not unaffected. But instead of familiar blue flames, she sees pain, like someone he trusted has stabbed him in the back. He sinks into the seat, as if the floor is pulling him down, as if he is finally feeling the weight that he has been carrying for over a year at this point. 

Terry stares out of the window as they return from the office. He is grieving before she is gone, as if to get it out of the way. It does not matter, she knows, if Death comes early or on time. It will hurt just the same. She needs Terry to be strong, if not for himself, then for Matt and her. She tells him as such, and the embers of fire enter his eyes once more. 

They will keep trying, and by God, the doctors do their best. But cancer is a greedy beast, and it devours more and more of her. And even as she is being eaten alive, Mary is calm, because someone has to be and it might as well be her. And one night, one particularly cold and dark night, where her youngest spirals into a panic attack and Terry needs to bring him back to be level, Mary does something that she has not done in a very long time. 

Mary prays. 

She knows that there is no God in Gotham. Life here is far too cruel for that to be the case. Her family was never very religious when she was growing up, and whether there is or is not a True God is not for her to say. She has no experience talking to a higher power. But she will do what she can. She recites every half-forgotten psalm, every prayer that she has ever read, in hopes to contact anyone Up There. Even if it only reaches the ears of the last son of Krypton, she will be grateful. 

_ Please _ , she whispers, feather-soft and reedy.  _ Please, let my boys be okay. They have already given and given and gave some more. They do not deserve this.  _

She does not know if anyone has heard. 

She would like to imagine that her words fly upwards, reaching to anyone they can find. In this age of progress and technology, in this shape and gleaming city, one can rarely see the stars. But tonight, beyond the faintest hint of satellites and planes, she thinks she can just barely make out the flicker of one. 

Her mother, in one of her rare flights of fancy, once told Mary that stars were prayers that had just gotten lost on the way. She hopes that this is true. For once in her life, Mary allows herself to hope. She may not survive, but she will be  _ damned _ if the city drags her down. 

She swears this to the night air, her breath choked with pain. Mary McGinnis was and always will be a force to be reckoned with. 

The city hears. 

* * *

Five months later, Mary McGinnis dies from stage 4 non-small cell lung cancer. 

Five months later, the Bat of Gotham disappears without a trace, confusing the GCPD, the Justice League, and Gotham as a whole. 

Five months later, Terry McGinnis punches a social worker in the face as his little brother is dragged away from him. 

Six months later, the Bat reappears, the weight of responsibility gracing his shoulders like a cape. He is silent and stoic and so goddamn  _ young _ . 

Six months later, the ever-present scum of Gotham learns to fear the shadow of the Bird once more. His smile is quick and easy and  _ sharp _ in a way that recent loss can only hone. 

Six months later, Gotham groans and shakes under the words of a dying woman's oath. The boys with wolf teeth and lion strength will not grow like the first Prince of the city. 

Mary's promise is kept. 

That is more than she ever expected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing's wordcount multiplied like a family of rabbits, honestly. 
> 
> I don't know what I have in store next, so it'll be a surprise for both of us!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter updates are sporadic and random. I'm working on something else right now, never fear.


End file.
